A mild chill, flows through the spine like a stick holding a puppet upright. The morning folds into itself through the crack of a window, a symphony of cars rush through rainy roads, a steady hum sloshing – stress in the air. Floorboards squeak softly, footsteps of a fathers workaholic coffee filling. Back and forth back and forth.
Tip taps echo from keyboards of laptops. Emails - bills to pay, chronic Facebook checking and reporters shouting on the TV. Politics and war. Reality so unreal we’re crammed in a corner, between mountain ranges in the desolate – deserted blue of the arctic. The guilt of safety, crippling.
In the morning, a father scouts the kitchen for his next fix. Hands on hips, eyes over reading glasses think, dishes in the sink, a plastic bag of homemade bread, Pepsi in the fridge, a screaming pot of coffee, he begins filling another cup.