My body is half-hunched over, resting atop an overstuffed gym bag. The blanket of cold is slowly lifting and the smells of fryer grease and diesel, amalgamating as one, swirl about my senses.

Each expansion of my lungs drives the stench deeper, but it is just the scent of home after all.

The ground moves slightly as the momentum of shifting moves my wheelchair slightly. It startles me. Sometimes I forget that I’m on wheels.

It is quiet, save for the harsh growls of semi trucks unloading their goods into the receiving ends of the local stores.

There aren’t many people awake at this hour. As a matter of fact, the man in the teal shirt who just silently passed in front of me elicited a not-quite-fainting-goat-but-almost startle.

I startle so hard and so easily.

Every other morning, I wait here, in this soundscape of near silence, a serene space for rumination and imagination.

Some authors are shower-writers, while others are nearly-freaking-asleep-writers. Some, like myself, flourish in the moments between.

It’s 5:35am, and like all other every-other-days, it’s time to leave for the gym. Not before taking these moments to appreciate what the morning has to offer to a hungry mind.