I love morning. The earlier, the better. It’s magic. In fact, I give it such a go in the beginning, I have nothing left for afternoons. A nap in the middle of the day brings on melancholy and anxiety in equal measure. Worse than waking up all over again.  It’s not new anymore. It feels  harsh, garish, like it’s somewhere in mid-sentence.

Act II is nothing like Act I. Like shift workers at the time clock, the Am guy gives the PM guy a sly, knowing look, ”yeah, I know, I know.” Afternoons find me rummaging through orange bottles with child proof caps to mitigate the sadness, lethargy and ennui.

Act III is wonderful. The third shift comes in and is oblivious to the struggles of the other two. It’s quiet, reflective, you can work in peace for a while until you get sleepy. Then it’s time to shut down production. You can breath and take a few minutes to watch the sun go down. No energy left for needless, repetitive thought. Leave that for the first shift. Mercy… at last.