Dawn is skulking in this morning, rain-flecked, dank, sun tucked up to its belly.
I'm up for no reason.
Untrue: I'm up so I can be alone in the house to shuffle through my breakfast liturgy. Paper, grape nuts, tea. Holy, holy, holy.
And I'm up so I can read. It's Proust, this morning. Out of pique.
Or wistfulness, or daring, affectation, curiosity, self-loathing. Fortunately Proust is commodious. I like that about him- the way each moment expands to accommodate galaxies, handbags, monsters, whole mornings in their cauls.