Bask yourself in goodness.

I'm still a night girl, but I also wake up with the sun. It slants the bricks on the neighbor's chimney peachgold, and plays blind shaped shadows on my bare, white walls. It stares carefully through gaps in the tree leaves. It rests, carronade by tangerine and lavender, in the thin early fog. The cicadas and aren't up yet, and the birds still sing into their sleeping feathers. In the night, sound seems to be muffled, and the dark closes around you like a pink cashmere blanket. To be awake is to be alone, at odds with other people. You can almost hear their dreams, drifting like perfume in the quiet air. But the morning is expansive and crisp, like the taste of pineapple