Sometimes moa tries to follow the tried and true perky tradition of leaping out of bed, slapping moa's self with cold water and then Away!
but then there are the other days. thursdays
it slowly dawns on moa that the myriad mixture of dreams he has been in/above/under have finally (sort of) ended, and he is just lying there, sprawled on his beloved bed, wondering what time it is. So he growls, intent on proving to the invisible masses that he is willing to rise, always willing to rise, despite the early hour, when he discovers, lo! it's late! way the fuck late!. "How could this happen?" he asks. Just a few short patterns ago it was early, and he was eager to grind up some beans and do something about the state of the world.
but he dreamt of love and belly buttons, and music and apples, and it was all unfurling so clearly, the pattern for the rest of the day, the week, just within touch.
just out of focus.
But a few minutes to really figure things out won't matter, he says to himself. snooze. znoose. and then another long minute later the sharp sun and unfamiliar brightness of a room he typically inhabits from midnight to 7 shake the moment.
and with guilt he rises. the dreams fading, the computer beckons. thursdays.