un-...

At dawn there is something unfinished about the light: it’s weak and faded. It spills on everything around like milk and it’s a little bit harder to breathe, a little bit harder to walk, a little bit harder to see the horizon line and the rising sun. In a way I am also unfinished, half empty and out of focus. I shake out a cigarette from the pack and light it up. The flame has a colour of ultramarine. It’s only few shades darker than my eyes.