Morning Glory

I awake and with my eyes still glazed a Monet's canvass awaits. As my iris adjusts its focus my immediate vista appears clearly to me now. Along the floor, my eyes follow dark varnished knotted tree beams and beyond that a french window at a jar. A slither of the outside world flickers at the hand of Zypherus as he masters a hypnotic, chaotic dance with thinly veiled curtains, pigeons mass on tightly packed rooftop tiles with some brief glimpses of stop-go motion on top of an endless repetition of grey North Atlantic Ocean. The sun peeping over from upcoming description that changes the spectrum illuminating the distance as shadows eclipse Parisian type buildings. Lazily we lay our legs tangled under Egyptian cotton sheets that keep us, prisoners, to an invisible force.