He woke before the sun. He stretched. He got out of bed and stubbed his toe. He swore. He stubbed his other toe. He swore and cried a little bit. He put his shoes and socks on, realised his error and put his socks and shoes on, this was still all before the sun. He ran a shower; he stood beneath the jets and stared at cream tiles four inches from his face. He sopped out of the shower. He swore, wriggled out of his soaking soapy clothes, dried himself off, and before the sun he tumbled back into bed.
The sun peeped pretty over the hill and into his street, casting pointy shadows for bins lined up by a dewy nature strip. His slack jawed slow breathing stayed true. The sun pressed its hands on the earth and pushed itself higher to get a better look. Shadows shrunk and cars started with coughs and slammed doors. He rolled over into damp dribble, startled, swore, turned the pillow over and slipped back to sleep. The sun dazzled self-consciously, it beamed and grinned and waited for him to look up with a smiling yawn. His housemate sung in the shower, he put his damp pillow over his head and squeezed his eyes shut tight. The sun beamed and blushed and worried. Bins went belly up as a garbage truck stopped and started and burped and farted up and down street. The sun hid behind a low hanging cloud and puzzled over the last time they spoke.
The phone rang and rang and rang and died. He stumbled out of bed, stubbed his toe and swore like before. He showered and dressed. He stomped down stairs with a stone in his guts. He ground his coffee and looked out the kitchen window to see a day withering with rainless clouds. He sipped his coffee but didn’t taste it. He slipped out the back door and saw a sky sick and wasted, weak blue grey, with thin clouds in shrouds dampening light. He couldn't see the sun, but he spied its milky glow feeding into some surly stratus. He felt sick. He thought he should say something, but he didn't know how.