One of the long days, the ones where the sun rises twice. You know it's separate days, the second 8 AM, but it's still just one day, an extension, a marathon. You pace yourself with injections of coffee, a regular hophead, you've told yourself you'll cut back but you can never seem to find the time. It's just coffee, you say, and it's just sleep.
It's a day where the edges of your eyelids start to make themselves known, a sourness and a sting. You feel the presence of each eyelash, whatever minuscule follicle burrows its way into you. Things that are soft are softer and things that are hard hurt. But it's a day where, really, to sit anywhere, on anything, is to feel a comfort you've forgotten.
Where even the night is day. And you realize it's just a matter of one man's dictionary. And on the other side of you is someone saying hello to what you've just told goodbye. One man's dictionary is another man's thesaurus. The only reason words have meanings is because we say they do. Same with the day, the night, the coffee, and all the little things in between. Seems foolish to give anything up.
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