The morning sunshine swims seamslessly towards the window, nudges through the window sill and proceeds to tickle my eyes, waking me up.
A group of white birds fly in the sky and then swoop down, like a bunch of falling feathers, as words. I write.
Characters in the story walk out of sentences, drink coffee over a conversation by the beach and return leaving a trail of sand over the keyboard. I barely recognize them now.
One page. And the morning is already ancient.