Morning arrives in the highlands long before dawn, a tempest of birdsong in the trees outside your window. You sleep too little, so many nights of bright starts and REM deficits, but you step barefoot onto the back porch with a cup of coffee in your hand, and cannot remember how to be angry about it.
While the house sleeps, you have every intention to take the chance to work, but work evades you when words fall into its place. The air is sweet with exotic flowers and mosquito repellent, a light breeze lifts the unassuming clouds in and out of your line of vision. The water in the pool is warm, the grass against your bare feet soft. One day your parents carried you for the last time, the life is not lost on you. You pick mango fruits right off the bough and think perhaps there is more to life than you're currently giving it credit.
February withers in the margins, molts from your pale winter skin. Embers of joy travel along the inside of your skin and send shivers down your spine. There was a time when you did not remember how to want to live, it's not that long ago, but in your chest it feels like the words of a whole other person. A sun rises over Africa. You begin to look for tickets to keep in your backpocket, again.
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