Sometimes waking up becomes the hardest thing to do.

Cashmere under industrial. It’s our job to be covert and insulated.

It’s a slow day. Concoctions ready to be served, lives left to make a difference, books all lined up in a row. It’s a typical, quiet Monday morning.

Spirals and abrupt turns, whiskers brushing against a sycophant banner atop. Abusing the symbol of Hygeia was not withdrawn. Nearly blinding lights, she watched as the sun slowly stretched its arms of rays, slowly moving away its silk blanket speckled with fish. She’s put her life into this, but lives have rarely been put onto her.

Reserving her thoughts to feeding those at home, she sits in front of an open book, pondering what life would have otherwise been. Or how lives play out for others that she watches. Regardless, she ponders, filled with different feet in different shoes, mind over matter.

Encompassed by intricate paint strokes and mounting of faces with eyes as youthful as a belladonna, she taps her half-bitten fingernails against a metal mortar.

As plain as she appears, her mind as clear as distilled water, she should create beautiful pictures, both in mind and on an easel.

Door chimes. Another round of abated appreciation and dying passions. Another day as a punching bag and smiling with bleeding lips. It’s just another day.