2002-06-13 - 5:?? AM

The morning is beautiful, moreso because I have been waiting all night to see it.
It is five something AM. My eyes became disengaged from their sockets when I saw the microwave's clock, as if they wanted to roam independant from my body because of their shock at the hour.
Things waver out of the corners of my eyes and I love it. When reality fades a bit is when things really begin to get stirred up. Fluffy animal friends, time goes by with an almost audible ZOOOM.
Grasp this. Grasp the enormity of this.
The sky bleeds pinkish where the trees and rooftops break it, hints of the sunrise that may never happen if there weren't a spectator to see it. I am only a solipsist at three AM.
To break the silence, eight sounds occur simotaneously. Then, they vanish. It curbs the monotony, the silence gestulates, of me.
The mountaintops emit a citrus glow of leftover sun, remnants of the star which bled there.
This is the precise moment of every day in which the street lights have not yet automatically shut off but serve absolutely no purpose, orange/pink glowing spheres of wasted electricity on a summer morning.
And the birds sing at the time of day when no one is around to hear it for that reason precisely.
No, I haven't missed the sunrise afterall. I sing along with the sun's ascent as it sings a song which I cannot replicate and do not understand the lyrics to. I improvise with Ode to Joy.
The sun is a huge volcanic eruption peeking over the sand -- and as it rises into the paper-thin sky, it grows smaller and smaller, an orange-flavored lollipop at the end of a soggy paper stick.
I pause midsentence as the mountains suddenly give birth to their sun, liquid gold spreading over my bedroom wall at a surprisingly rapid rate.
The sun's shape becomes more and more obviously round, like a bowl full of sliced cantolope, dripping with sticky electric juices down the sides.
There is something hidden right in the center of the sun, but you can never look long enough to see it. If you were able to, you would see that whatever is hidden in the center of the sun is so magnificent and wonderous and amazing that you would go blind from the beauty of it and feel content about never seeing any other image again, just so long as the last image quite literally burned in your brain was of whatever is concealed in the sun's core. I, almost, want to try it.
Light floods into my bedroom in the same way as water overflows from a bathtub to greet the tiled floor, spreading wetness slowly like juice being soaked up by a paper towel in one of those paper towel commercials.
The sun is now completely visable. Scientists say that there are not perfect circles only because they cannot measure the sun.
It is a fantastic morning.