Sunday mornings.
The not-quite-a-hangover fuzzy feeling on the inside of your temples,
Not quite nausea, but enough to suppress your appetite,
Not quite tired, but batteries down to their red percent.

Monday mornings.
Not quite anxious, but running on dread.
Not quite hopeless, but no objection if dead.
Although not quite defeated, no desire to win just yet.

Fog day mornings
All of the above but blended, churned, blitzed into one.
Foggy in all your decisions, foggy about all you’ve done.
Fogginess clouds your feelings, fog shrouds all you’ve become.



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