The mornings here are beautiful. I enjoy watching the sun filter through the dense clouds, washing dew-drenched leaves with an orange shower that drizzles in time with the songs of the birds. Then there are the crowded train rides to work that, while stuffy, take me off the ground. Sometimes, the train zips by alongside a bird in mid-flight, and I can see them suspended in air, arching out their wings as they are lifted by the breeze, silent, if not for the rush-hour traffic. But the best part is how I find myself at eye-level with the flaming flowers that garnish the tree-tops or lush green carpetry of the tropical rainforest.

It is morning. And I still fucking hate you.