A window pane gently turning hues of red and orange, as though someone’s trying a palette of these colours on it. It arrives this way on my window, the morning. In the next few minutes the room begins filling up with light, and with vapours of water brewing a fresh load of coffee. The arrival of a morning, can never be sufficiently written about, nor lived sufficiently enough to not wait for every successive morning. It arrives and it calls forth the dweller who awakes in it, to go along and believe in the breaking light, at least for those few formative moments.

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