A Rushed Hush.

There is a rushed hush to half-lit mornings when no one is up and about but those who have to be, who were dragged from warmth and dreams and home by calamitous clattering of a clocks demands. We stare at each other blankly on roads, in doorways, and on elevators, unable to believe that our agony is shared. It is too early in the morning to do anything but nod and I can barely manage a grumbled, "Hello." I am not alive. I am always stunned that other people can see me before ten o'clock in the morning.