Automatic Zzing

Mornings are inhuman.

To burrow under dreams, to lie beside the long-whiskered walrus who kept you company all night, to close one's eyes and not have to worry about the bundy clock, the impossibly punctual officemates, the desk behind which one will sit all day, placing commas and spaces where there was none, to sleep without trouble, free from the tyranny of deadlines, no more volcanoes to run away from, instead of the daily Roman feasts of which you'd like to partake -

These are what mornings decline to give.