3:45 a.m. – Wake naturally to the soft sigh of a ghost. Or maybe it’s the hum of the Amherst wind through the shutters. Either way, it’s a Sign. Do not question the Sign.
4:00 a.m. – Lie completely still and compose six hauntingly perfect quatrains in your mind. Refuse to scribble them down. Let them ferment in the silence like forbidden knowledge.
4:45 a.m. – Tape mouth shut. This is not for health. It’s a vow of silence to preserve the sanctity of unspoken verse.
5:00 a.m. – Dwell in possibility while donning a flawless white gown. Consider briefly wearing a beige one, then laugh inwardly. This mortal coil is no place for earth tones.
5:30 a.m. – Place a single drop of rosewater on your forehead. It’s not skincare; it’s communion with eternity.
6:00 a.m. – Practice 1,872 quill strokes. Each stroke corresponds to a previously unpublished poem. Resist the urge to show anyone. Genius is a private affair.
6:15 a.m. – Commune with the fern in the corner. Channel its wisdom. It says, “Hope is a thing with fronds.” Nod respectfully. Could be a good line.
6:30 a.m. – Cold water plunge, as it would take too long to draw a hot bath.
6:47 a.m. – Brew tea. Steep it precisely thirty-two seconds while murmuring a sonnet to the leaves. The tea listens. The tea understands.
7:00 a.m. – Gaze out the window at the neighbor’s house. Wonder if they, too, are contemplating eternity or simply waiting for the milkman. Blink once, lest they feel your scrutiny. Blink twice, too much.
7:03 a.m. – Consider breakfast.
7:15 a.m. – Engage in a twenty-minute stare-down with a crow perched on the garden wall. The crow flees first. Victory.
7:45 a.m. – Attempt transcendence. Hover two inches above the ground for twelve minutes—the laws of physics briefly acknowledge your superiority—or was it a Dream?
8:00 a.m. – Receive a letter from Death. Decline his invitation; you cannot stop for him. Reseal the letter with wax and hide it under your pillow.
8:05 a.m. – On second thought, decide against keeping Death’s invitation. Burn it ceremonially—let the ashes inform your next stanza.
8:30 a.m. – Retreat to the writing desk. Line up four freshly plucked flower petals to serve as muses. Write a poem addressed to the concept of frost. Fold it into the fabric of time.
9:30 a.m. – Pushups.
10:00 a.m. – Brief séance to consult your past self. She is enigmatic. The answers arrive in slant rhyme.
10:30 a.m. – Pen a note to the concept of Time. Demand an extension. Time, as usual, replies in dashes—ambiguous, unhurried, infuriating. It never did assuage.
11:00 a.m. – Mark the hour with a sigh.
12:00 p.m. – Retreat to the sanctuary of your room. You’ve outlived the morning once again. Immortality achieved.