i wake late in my cool, pitch dark room at the back of the house.  the thick blue velvet curtains are keeping out the bright summer light on the other side.  i stretch, groan, mumble and arise.  there is an empty heavily etched mexican glass goblet on my mirrored 40's table night stand.  books are askew beneath me, namely The Shamanic Way of the Bee and Crossing to Avalon.  and a gold wrapper with flecks of remnants from a dark chocolate almond sea salt bar incriminates me by existing, bed side, my side.