It's Saturday morning. The sun coming through my curtains is lighting up the entire room. It's almost 8.30am. I have slept over eight hours too. A rarity these days. My earplugs are keeping most of the sound out. I remove them and all the buzzes and hisses and the clock that never stops ticking, all the sounds dive straight for my ears, into my now wired thoughts. A glorious day awaits me. I woke only moments ago thinking it was Sunday. Saturday is a relief. I need a few days. Long week. I want to hold the city. Take my time with her. Feel her inside me.
I lie here. Golden yellow curtain fire. I hope this day provides. I hope I am enough for her. I rarely lie still in bed when I wake. I normally leap, or do the equivalent movement for a man of my age, from my bed and propel myself toward school and the big unknown.
Today my freedom could take me anywhere. Any kind of magic is possible (always), and a wonderful friend from Vienna is Budapest-bound this very same morning. He may even be making his way across the land between the Austrian and Hungarian capitals as I write. I last saw him only the previous month in his home city, for my first visit there, where the weather was a cocktail of everything across only a day and a half and where we shared playing some great music and passed the hours in the most splendid fashion. Magic awaits us too. I do not doubt it for a second. Still the sun is tapping. Tapping at my window. Violently showing her hand. A morning fit for kings.
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