Existing alone in a house is eery.  The floorboards creak, the old doorknob that hangs on the bedroom door clanks when you slip out in the middle of the night.  It is often cold.  Humanity is missed.  Those you avoided last month are wished for.  At night, alone is a terrible word.  

Morning is a relief.  Sunlight streams in through the thin curtains and highlights veins of fabric.  You sing a bar chant as soap falls through your hair, elbows bumping the siding as you dance in the small shower.  Breakfast is a happy occasion.  Skim milk is greeted with cheer and tea is brewed.  Outside is the beginnings of summer, warm light sending the shadows on the willow tree into sharp relief.  (Let’s Call It Off, Girl Talk Remix)

This time it has to be Peter Bjorn and John