This is the day you said you'd get up and go outside. You promised yourself this yesterday, too but then bargained between the pillowcase and darkness for one more day. A study in contrasts, you are rigid and fragile, soft and rusting out. Breathing slowly against the background so no one will hear and wonder if you just might -- no, not this morning, it's a bit too soon. There is a pattern in this that feels like comfort (but it's not) and the habit becomes a cocoon, becomes a shell, becomes a wall. Becomes a withering away.