Waking up

In the haze of circumstance, several items made themselves apparent, if in the fuzzy mode of myopic distance or non-conscious observation; there was the overspilling chest of drawers drawer with its excess of partly folded clothing (the topmost, leftmost of these deigning to dangle partly over the side); the desiccate half-pint (sacrificed somewhen to the neighbouring plant pot containing an excellent specimen of sagging Spathiphyllum); the unused blanket (providing warmth not often needed in the warmth of August almost September), nevertheless disordered by nocturnal tossing and turning; the duvet cover at an unpleasant proximity to the chin; the irritation of a midge bite on the fourth finger of the left hand. Each presenting itself as a mere chimaera to the modern man, unseen by the inadequate, yet omnipresent, yet fictitious; each an apparition readily apparent. Now, I cannot say all this came to me at that moment, as I, nonverbal so much as nonpsychical, occupied the somnolent purgatory that is a feature of most mornings of suboptimal abounding (five per week at a minimum), and which come most prominently with the realisation that sleeping in the alternate orientation would have better shown the half six sun (as the elderly proclaim: not as it once was!) to wasteful eyes and weary limbs. Oh, what wonder the approaching winter provides for a man who (on the part of deficiency) even in the height of natural gift adopts a Teutonic response to the receipt of such, and who accepts the approaching half year with the resignation befitting a man of youth!