Egg Timer and Infinite Shelf
· 6 min read
Six seventeen in the morning. The alarm hadn't gone off yet, but I was awake. Outside the window, the sky was a thin, washed-out blue-gray, like something laundered too many times, carrying a hint of hungover fatigue. This city is always like that, waking up reluctantly. It seemed my body housed its own alarm clock, more precise and more stubborn than the mechanical thing on the bedside table.