this morning i am woken and you are not and outside, the day is waiting. it is hot and risen but it is patient for us and we are patient to. in the knowledge that this is one of many sundays. you rise and fall again into sleep, into the crevices of it, into the corners. later on i will find you there, hiding under the stairs, peering through the keyhole in the tiny little door, curiousier and curiouser.