The parrot squawks from downstairs as sunlight peeks through the blinds. The air conditioner pushes the smell of stale smoke throughout the room. Her Chihuahua's warm body is curled against my leg, under the blankets.

A door opens in the hallway, uttering a drawn creak into the morning's silence. Brisk footsteps make their way to the bathroom and the turn of a lock follows.

I lay, as I always lay, staring up at the ceiling fan. At the blotches of white on the wall from where the blue paint has peeled. At the cobweb in the corner. The pieces of tape that presumably once held something besides themselves.

I should be sleeping. I think of how I should be sleeping. I mull over it. List the reasons I'm awake. The possibilities as to why consciousness currently presides over unconsciousness. Why I'm trapped with open eyes and bombarding theories and scenarios. Why I can't just relax and melt and drain and dry out and sleep.

Why can't I sleep?

I don't settle on a satisfactory cause so, I just lay.

Awake.

Troubled.

Unhappy.

What terrible way to start the day.