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6am:         Rising to crackled reception, I breathe, stomach rising and falling, this, the mimicked serenade to sunrise, performed the whole world over.8am:         In the kitchen, stale bread and a coffee cup invite me to breakfast.Reading headlines, I count morning on both hands, four espresso ribbons, draped over the pages, filling where ink cannot.12pm:       I lie on the small square of grass looking up into the apex of cerulean.Up on the gutter, sits a bird, still, below thick down, ticks suck out birdsong.This world, one of quiet tragedy.3pm:         In the supermarket I watch people stocking up, each in a daze of commercial hyster...