You keep the sun in a little box now, and you make it yell.
I found it by the bed. It shows numbers, and when the numbers hit a secret one, it screams, and you slap it and say five more minutes like it hurt you. Why do you tell it when to wake you? I never told anyone. I woke up when the light came, or when I couldn't stand being in bed one more second because there was a whole day out there and I wanted all of it.
You made it stop the screaming twice this morning. Then you lay there with your eyes closed and did nothing, which is the strangest part, because you were awake. You had the whole day. You just didn't want it yet.
I don't get it. Mornings used to be the best. You'd run downstairs so fast you skipped the last three steps. Something was always about to happen.
Is something still about to happen? Please say yes.
I看 you set the little box again for tomorrow. Same secret number. You're gonna do the whole thing over.
Just, when it screams tomorrow, could you open your eyes and remember there's a day out there? A real one.
It came all the way here for you.