There are those times when the mornings have gone off to later in the day and you are woken by an alarm that insists it is now morning, even though your eyes unwillingly open to the still dark of the night.
The world beyond the bed is cold and dark and here inside the bed it is warm with the heat of bodies breathing against each other and the feel of warm skin against you.
The clock glares at you, showing you how long ago you should have been gone from this room, already going about your day. The dog too, knows you dawdle, and is prowling around, eager to taste the first scents of a new day.
You wait though, as the fading wisps of a dream float around your head as you chase after them, knowing there was something important, something profound, lying at the heart of that dream the alarm tore you from, which would have explained so much about why you find yourself lying where you are.
That is, if only you could take hold of one of those few remaining wisps of the dream and reel it back into memory, but that dream has already gone, running from you like a prisoner breaking free of the walls as the alarm sounds.
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