The Third of June, Two Thousand and Ten

Twas dawn chorus and the hectic bird song was keeping me awake. I couldn't tell that the sun was up so why could those little bastards? We have to be tricked in to sunlight, what with daylight savings but the animal kingdom seem to be hard-wired to it. You never catch a lark snoozing in, but then again if you did why would you be up a tree at that time in the morning?

Liam was up a tree at that time in the morning. It was around four at the front end of June. Like I said the birds were crowing like fuck and it wasn't light. I stirred and dragged myself from that sweet bed. My cock was hanging from my pyjama shorts, my feet were glad to be out from the duvet and my chin itched. I walked to the curtains and yanked them open. Some evergreen tree that lived near my window was holding a person. That person was Liam, in his boxer shorts and a girl's nightshirt. He was asleep and had a dead tit in his hand.I scratched my scratchy chin and stared at him for about ten minutes...

The staring soon turned to thinking and the thinking abstracted itself further. I was chewing over the fact that this would be a memory. I already had a term for this though; I'd coined it "like cows in the rain" when I was watching cows in the rain and I knew it would be a memory with introspect. Is that a word? It is now. Anyhow within this introspect I was considering re-coining it. But nothing as rhythmically pleasing as "like cows in the rain" would surface. It was to do with the sheer density of what was in that tree:

      One fat asperger, glasses still on, dressed half like a girl and semi himself but still semi undressed.
      An animal, once flightful now flightless - in death, still in his sleeping paw.
      The grip not loose but definite, snapped wing framed between fingers and decorated with brown blood.

Beautiful image to consider, yes, accessible in an introactive memory, no.

I watched him breathing for a while his delicate and peaceful breaths sedating my tired self. I wondered how he got up there but the work of thinking was much harder than dissecting a memory so freshly possessed that it had not elapsed. I turned from the window, leaving the curtains open, scrambled back between those now cold sheets. I closed my eyes and fell to sleep. I no longer gave a shit about the birds.