Good morning.

This morning's breakfast was just almost just like the last: toaster strudel that never lives up to the picture on the box, grapefruit juice in impossibly cold shiny tin cups, Ziggy Stardust. Although, outside, all was pale and stormy. Thunder boomed in the distance. Everything was covered in a film of mist and fog hung around suspiciously in corners. And the slick and shiny melting jack o' lanterns surveyed their surrounding tiredly with the air of a man who knows the worst is over. Meanwhile, I sat in my room dimly lit only by the sun through the clouds, with my breakfast and glam rock.
Perfect.


[By the way, grapefruit juice is the breakfast juice of champions, which proves, once and for all, that I am the champion, my friend.]



May the Force be with you.