THE FIFTH MORNING OF GRIEF by Adolf Talon
C
ome to think of it, the world is ordinary. You lay your head still on soft unstained pillows as you wake today. Eyes leeched on the canvas. Another morning of sweeping dust on the floor and a wise choice to sip that morning latte. If only it stays ordinary. The fresh howl of cold led to that first long sighing pause, then a wiser choice came to mind to succumb to that dark roast caffeine. The bittered lip begs for sugar or at least something sweet, something like grabbing a telephone to dial and a call into a spiral. This television, maybe, may be the best case of memorial for every bitter sip. As today’s forecast only brings weather news. Today it reports the moderate rainfall, but only drought— no single teardrop
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DAPITAN
