PROSE – 3TC #MM48 – MORNING VIBE
Night lingers longer than it should, clinging to the edges of the world like a thought half-forgotten. It doesn’t go easily. The air is still, but not gentle—there’s a sharpness to it, the kind of chill that doesn’t announce itself. It pricks at the skin, slow and methodical, working its way in until your body shivers and you’re not sure when it started.
You finish your smoke. One last flick. The ember cuts through the dark like a dying star—brief, insignificant, but final. Somewhere out there, homes stir. The floors creak. Feet drag in patterns worn deep by repetition. The restless shuffle begins, zombie-like and directionless, following the scent of timer-brewed salvation. Coffee. The first small mercy of morning.
You sit by the window with a cup, warm in your hands, and watch the sky peel itself open. First the black, then the dull gun-metal, then the faintest shade of pale. The blue comes slowly, unsure of its welcome. Beneath it all, the horizon simmers—red, orange, brown—like coals that never fully went out. A silent ember of the night’s final stand, glowing under the weight of a world about to move again.
The inkwell stirs, shakes off its rust. Its lid lifts like a breath held too long. The quill taps, tentative at first, testing the moment. No plan, no script. Just rhythm. Just the need to begin.
You pour another cup. The clock says 5 a.m.
And somewhere between the sip and the silence, Elvis Costello’s “Radio, Radio” crackles through the speakers—too loud for the hour, perfect for the mood. The voice is defiant, bright, sharp as a match strike. You listen, because the lyrics don’t ask—they insist. The static fades beneath the beat. The world hasn’t spoken yet, but it’s no longer asleep.
Memoirs of Madness 