After the night of a thousand wants (the sea, the stars, the moon), the morning comes, bright and exposing. Keen desire is remembered by muscle and skin, in the spine's tingling.

I hate regret. The cruelty of afterthought, it is the bane of my life. It is the memory of the path not taken, the words not offered, the dream unrealized. If I had no regrets, would I be a better person?

Showers are the best relief, sluicing off night sweat and dream sand. Put on your armor of a black, discreetly sheer dress; barricade your face, still swollen from wrestling with sleep, with concealer, a cat-flick of eyeliner, eyebrow powder so you look less surprised by the day; take up your shield, the daily planner. Write your to-do list, the myriad practical concerns that form the self of the everyday, the self that must forget the other self, the dreaming, nebulous, semi-formed self that takes on the obscure shapes of the night. Coffee is excellent; this elixir will sharpen your self, define its boundaries between itself and the world, make yourself intelligible, able to quickly recall the language of this world.

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