Shark tank

Mornings, when your thoughts wander into the fringes of the abyss and come back as mere shadows. 

They scrape in cruddy filth of loathsome dark alleys secreted away in the dingiest prisons of your memories. They excavate through blotted out and lapsed mines of ancient miseries, they unfurl iron curtains that've permanently barred an obliterated center stage of vicious thoughts. 

They tinker with mental alarm bells that you've subconsciously put on a permanent snooze and tried with a ferocious might to forget. 

Thoughts are a concrete fallacy. They exist and they don't. Deceptive, receptive, willful and wicked. 

To muse in the mornings is to thread through your veins with a blunt knife.