Sunshine pouring through the cloudy, permanently weather stained windows. Hot, fresh coffee steaming in an old, dented cup resting on a table of worn wood and rusted nails. A book about a bike race that used to consume me sitting quietly under a stack of poorly drawn drawings. Soft, well crafted music fills the air. This is my morning. This is how I am starting my day. Four out seven are similar depending on the status of the giant ball of fire in the sky. I prefer it this way. The remaining three are begun in darkness, under the veil of night that has not yet broken. My schedule is peculiar and doesn't allow my body to set itself. The result is perpetual tiredness. A constant yawn. It's who I am. It's the bed I've made. I enjoy it, but I know it's rough. It's rough on me and it's rough on those around me. That said, it has allowed me to look at all of it as training for that massive endurance event that has yet to present itself. Everyday is training. Every day is suffering. Every day is a success.