The neon that rules the night fights the sun on a bright September morning. The messages of twisted tubes - Pizza, Billiards, Miller Lite - are all wrong, hung over, weak from being up all night. I understand their tepid response to the irrationally exuberant sun - tired, unshowered, and driving on autopilot down the one pothole-strewn road that the stimulus package is not repaving, I lament for the umpteenth time that I am not and never will be a morning person. The sunglasses I had made extra dark are still not dark enough today, but they let in those pale pink blue and yellow lights that catch my sleep speckled eyes, hinting that this glare will deepen into a golden day. By noontime I will be showered, busy and happy, and by dusk I will assess whether I have squandered one of the last lovely days before winter. And then maybe I will drive past the signs again as they take over the night gratefully and wish that I could go back and start over again.
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