{1}

Promises of real coffee hung misty over the steaming cup of chicory-blend.  Daniel warmed the ice from his hands by wrapping them around the hot tin mug;  then  felt a relieving bliss, biting all the way thru his fingers, comfortably.

Languid bare feet. Frozen bone, wrinkled toes on chill tiled‑stone.  Legs are urged to move.  Shuffle back to bed.  He climbs under the covers, which now feel slightly cooled from the shades of the previous night.

Lips, enlivened by heat.  Life burns thru the tastes that devour his mouth.  Waves of sweet-burning brew awakening him;  sliding down his throat to his core.  Feet ache, then crawl back into the blankets together. Burying their toes deeper into the warm cotton folds, like a couple of furry creatures, hidden in the winter.

Rain had been falling for days, yet now it looked like easing.  Morning was painted in the sky with rough strokes, seemingly crafted a little carelessly.  Smears of smoke had contaminated the atmosphere, giving the white and turquoise of cloud and air, a dirty grey tinge, which tainted the morning so that it appeared more like a well‑dazed afternoon.  Stray rays of sun refracted fragments of rainbow thru the kitchen window, hinting lightly at the world.

As he drained the last drops of brown liquid from the mug, Daniel closed his eyelids, squeezing tight the previous night's dreams between the wrinkles at the corners of his starburst-blue eyes.  He inhaled deeply from the cup, then breathed out, rubbing his neck;  stiff from its battle with the pillows. 

Lifting a half-eaten coffee biscuit off a saucer, he gently chews;  and crumbs fall down his chin.  Some bits of the biscuit fall into the cup, and some bits remain on his beard.  A few of the bigger crumbs fall onto the bed, and the largest crumb bounces off the bed-covers, arcs in the air and crashes to the floor, shattering into thousands of crumblets. 

Some of the larger bits fly all the way across the room,  and smash to the floor as well, impacting  like microscopic sand-clods, or miniaturised meteors.

But, the smallest biscuit-particles float for quite a while, caught by swirls of air-currents.  Dissipating finely in all directions, filling the atmosphere with the essence of crumbled cookie.

Some crumblets biscuited their way with such momentum that they drifted many many many millimetres.  Even so far as to float out the door.

Daniel continues to nibble.

>. . . if you do not move, and stay quite still, you might see. . .
something really beautiful. . .<

Daniel swallows immediately.  That. . . voice. . . seems to come from within me?  But. . . somehow it is not me?

A slight movement at the door.  !  ?

The hairs on Daniel’s shoulders prickle at his neck, then bristle down his spine. . .

smile quietly. . .

remaining still. . .

(mouse)

nibble-sniffling at the biscuit-scented air

whiskers twitching, , ,

then it scurry-runs, at near invisible speed

behind a chair

Daniel’s hand drops down to his side.

The half-eaten biscuit still held between his fingers.

All seems still. . .

Little, , , brown, , , with four-black-stripes, (field-mouse), pops out its twitching nose and dark round eyes, from under the mountain-chair, then, quite amazingly runs straight up, and takes its prize from Daniel’s finger-tips, turns-tail, and in the next instant, , , four-black-stripes-of-fur. . .

. . . delicately vanishes into the biscuit-sweetened air . . .

{2}

Disparate echoes of the previous evening’s dream-images, lived still vivid behind Daniel’s eyes:  Remember being in love, and nineteen - with a girl of seventeen;  then told by the judge that you're too young to be married. 

Thin limbs, young and supple - innocence - confusion - glorious hells - fumbling love.  Never shall forget her magic flavoured scents.  Intoxicating smells.

His scars, her hands, his wounds, her healing.  Their poems of spells.  The wild and crazy stories that they told each other, reading plays, and then living the characters until all hours of the morning.  Inventing extra side-plots to Shakespeare, turning his tragedies into comedies;  becoming part of the living narrative.  Then came their young and raging-clashing tempers.  Smashed furniture, shattered glass.  Adventure.

{3}

The day stretched before him, free and terrible;  daunting as an unplayed musical instrument;  inviting him to fill it with some smattering of melody.  Warming to the laughter in the discords which it promised, he felt a restless unease.  And so continued about his meagre routine:

Fresh bread at the bakery - a daily goal.  Daniel felt the brown packet crumple in his hand.  Sweating through the paper bag came the smell of dough.  Open it a fraction;  inhale its offerings;  then break off a corner of the loaf.  At first just touch the lips with the aroma of life.  Then let it role into a ball around your tongue.  Taste each second of your life in its perfection.  Now, , , only now.

Painful shod-feet scuffle the pavement, glistening with the remnants of rain.  Inadvertently kicking into a stone, which skids off the kerb and lands in a puddle;  sending out perfect ripples from where it lands.  Goal!  Memories of village football  fame echo outwards like ripples of applause from a generous crowd.  Now, each painful step seems to be its own goal.

“Daniel!” - He starts out of his reverie - almost dropping the loaf of bread into the gushing rainfall gutter.  The voice rings out again.  Too familiar.  Young and old together.  Its youth echoing from some distance in a past season.  A balding face reveals itself behind the voice, smiling back at him like a drunkard in the mirror.

Grey patches seem to hold the brown beard together.  Skin seems wrinkled in the grasp of time.  But mockingly, the laughter in the deepest shade of blue, strips back the decades - and for a moment Daniel sees the clean-shaven face of youth;  sun-bleached uncut hair, then falls into the delicacy of a timeless, age-old embrace.