And You Didn't Ask Why

You wake with your face sticky with sweat and you shiver in the chill of the morning. You roll yourself out of bed and you pull on a sweater and you pull the hood over your forehead. And you stumble down the hall to the kitchen to make yourself breakfast. And your feet on the cold kitchen tile make you shiver in the chill of the morning. The blue light of the morning crawls through the window which faces an alley off a street you've never been to. Right behind your own home there are places you've never been to. And the building on the other side casts shadows all day long. There are squirrels eating through the plastic garbage bags on your balcony and there is a cat in the kitchen with his face pressed to the window and you eat instant oatmeal in the middle of the kitchen watching it all. And you shiver. And you shiver. And you shiver. And you know no profound things.