Into the Land of the Tea Kettle

Through the slit of the half-shut shades, I can see a sort of pale, iron-colored light sifting through the windows, filling up all the spaces left uninhabited by 7am. I pull back the tangle of blankets that has made its living between my knees and throw my weight over the edge of the mattress where my warm feet thump clumsily on the cold wood, and the blood rushes to my head, and I feel my hair rise with the static as it parts with the pillow. My world is iron-colored and it spins. My bare feet pick their way through the labyrinth of dirty t-shirts and dust bunnies that dwell on last-semester's syllabi and a few scattered newspapers and my roommate's copy of As I Lay Dying until at last I reach my dresser and fumble for the orange box of DayQuil. Finding it, I drink it down with cold Chamomile tea from last night, then put the kettle on to boil, intending to make myself some Udon soup from UpC, reach for my philosophy reading on my night table, but instead fall asleep as soon as cheek meets pillow, finger still stuck in between the pages.

Radish