I begin again; the same, but different. My consciousness aligns below eight numbers that represent the day. Another day. Another Monday. The basketball commentary is a low murmur to my right, too quiet to make out words. It is cold outside and the birds are determined to tell me so, I can hear them swooping and cawing between the trees.
This is a beginning. This is a low hill rising to yet higher hills topped with trees. This is the tops of the trees swaying in the breeze. This is the steep cliffs beyond the trees, the stone and the slope. This is the snow-capped peak of the mountain, beyond which lies another, taller mountain. And another. And another.
This is a beginning. The world, unmasked, wears masks. And once again I write three lonesome words:
Good morning, Monday.
