Most Mornings...

You wake up at the edge of the proverbial woods. The sounds that emanate from within are a discordant cacophony of sobs, squeals, laughter and screams all underscored by birdsong and the thump-thump-thump of heavy construction machinery.

There are something like 97 different openings into those woods.

You poke your head in one, and it has it's own soundscape. Distinct. An admixture of dread and hope. With a funky baseline. The next one is a little bit country, a little bit baroque harpsichord. So, you know. Not that one. Not today anyway.

You keep checking to find the right path.

And checking. And checking. All 94 of them. Turns out you overestimated how many there were. So: that's good news.

Then night falls.

It's fucking dark in there. The sounds get stranger. The laughter fades. The squeals change pitch.

No fucking way you're going in there now.


In the morning.

That's when you'll go into the woods.