The idea of fixing breakfast (and then eating it) fills me with existential dread. At that hour, complex food decisions are usually bad. As is proven by everybody around me. Fried stuff. Boiled stuff. Gloop. Insta noodles. Sweet stuff on top of more sweet stuff. Dried fish.
The only breakfast a man needs is strong coffee, followed by time alone. The alleged coziness of the family table just after dawn is a mockery. Man was born alone, drinks his coffee alone, and dies alone. At various times in between he is naked and cold.
My apartment mate, on the other hand, is wide awake and arguing with a turkey vulture. As well as a one-legged gibbon.
This is a high level of energy I do not have.
At this hour I am not a social being.
I look forward to quiet time.
Smoke, and a bus stop.
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