On more than many a morning, I wake to find the silence deafening. I sigh, acknowledging the cliche. All the while, the tension mounts just beyond my window, resonating off people, buildings, technology and wheeled transport – works in progress all. Yes, there are delights unseen awaiting, broiling us in microwaves of undulating currents, modulating the air we choke on.I’ve yet to rise, but I’m already on my way. My eye stings, my nose runs, my breath already soured from stale sleep. A short while later, the comfort of breakfast soothes and then bloats.

I am hurried to venture nothing with nothing to gain but the unholy pursuit itself that drives me to distraction. It’s a sacred ritual for some; it’s death to me. The loss of precious moments, youth, exuberance and creativity.

I think that I am, but perhaps I’m not. Eager to purge this allergen, I scratch, but the irritation persists. There is no ointment for this inflammation. No creams. Not even a poultice or a vapor rub.

Nevertheless, there are only decisions to make: tea or coffee, lemon and honey or another thimble full of a generic brand of Baileys Irish Cream. Seeking inner sanctum, I urinate freely for awhile.