I hold the thought that each day is the only day I have.
I celebrate the night. I detest the morning. Afternoon is in my wheelhouse and it alone holds the promise for the day—will I find the answers or will I formulate the questions? The afternoon leads to dusk and doubts, and holes appear in the future. Night unfurls with the requisite cessation of superheated woes and wrinkles, and celebration ensues. I celebrate the night. I detest the morning. Rinse with salt. Repeat.