Realities. Some mad hysteria in the morning hardly seems real during the quiet contemplation of the evening. Images are playing back, and I sit and tell myself it isn't me I am seeing. It is dead quiet, and I feel the onset of a cold. An ill-lit room is no comfort as I continue this mental fixation. Let it go, I want to say, but things are never as easy as that. It doesn't matter, those words against your character that may well follow. It is not me, I say, it is not me. I give the monster a name, and the madness clears.

It strikes me - it's because the morning was disrupted. Warm cup of coffee in hand, and totally tranquil...no, that moment is now gone. Till next week then. As night approaches, things give way in my head, and I begin to wonder what is real.