Everyday he wakes up at six. He sits up on the side of his bed and puts on his glasses. He goes to the bathroom. He gets out. He goes to the kitchen counter. He prepares himself some cereal to accompany his news paper. He eats while he is still in his boxers. He leaves the bowl into a tremendously big pile of dishes that wait -in denial- to be washed someday. Perhaps he should use disposable dishes. He gets up from the table. He goes and puts up his bed. He opens the wardrobe and puts on one of the two white shirts, one of the fancy - but very developed in years- pants and a tie, the tie...if we're fond of narrative grammar. He goes to the bathroom. He uses mouthwash - for that nasty bacterial plaque. He checks the oven... not that ever anything bakes there. He turns off the lights, or the light for that matter. And he leaves the studio apartment that he unquestionably; unexcitingly unanythingly lives in - lived in for 30 very vivacious years....for an amoeba. Of course the rest is easy. He goes to work using the subway. He works at a candy factory you know. Well not exactly in the factory. Right near it. About two miles away. Two hundred to be exact. In a box office. Doing finance calculations… Or something.... He leaves at seven. Comes home. And everyday, he undoes the whole morning session. Except he eats TV dinner instead of the cereal deal, a refreshing change, or else he would go crazy doing the same thing over and over and over again... Then, he sleeps.
But not today. No! Today is different. He feels it. He felt it right when he woke up at six. A sense of fresh, distinct, chilly resurrection - if we're lucky we might catch him use his face muscles to mimic an emotion maybe...or not. But he has to see it for himself. He sits up at the side of his bed and puts on his glasses. The blur is gone. He examines his hands a little. They feel amazingly light - yet perhaps its simply a delusion for he has never really felt that his arms were heavy, well, he never checked to feel the weight of his arms really, these are arms for gods sake... lets not get carried away here. But something is definitely different. He needs a mirror. He goes to the bathroom. Again with the examination of the physical. But no, no difference - huh... such a peculiar word. He gets out, a little disappointed maybe, but not really. Anyways, so he goes to the kitchen counter. He takes his cereal box. The box is empty -Again with the feeling- He opens a cupboard to take a new box from his stock. The cupboard is empty. This is disturbing. He takes the phone. He calls the local mini store and asks for seven boxes of cereal -seven has always been his number. They say they're out of stock too. The shop is empty? He gets almost angry. But never mind, he says thanks and hangs up. Perhaps he can make some eggs. An egg. The egg. He takes the egg. He heats a clean but dusty pan. He cooks it Sunny side up - not sure where he learnt that but he does. When the egg is cooked He puts it in a plate. A dusty plate. He takes his morning paper. He goes to the table and sits -In his boxers of course. He looks at the egg - it looks very.... yellow. He takes his fork which is most definitely undeniably too sharp for breakfast. And he slowly gets closer to the egg with his fork. Just when he touches it he pauses, from hesitation- and partly from the chilly resurrection. But he says what the hell. Takes a bite. Chews. Grinds. Swirls. Lewigates. Mills. Pestles. Pounds. Granulates. Powders. Atomizes. Swirls. Gulps. Gulps. Swallows. Lets go of the fork. Drops the paper. Coughs. Coughs. Coughs. Suffocates. And dies.......because cereals are so very terribly underestimated.......And life is so very terribly overrated......
