Laying down prostrate hearing alarm sirens sound, I yank myself up at a right-angle, 90-degree fulcrum at the sound. Wrenching my eyes awake going against all slumberous instinct knowing that I must rise. In a sweeping motion, blankets are off and I am putting on clothes and boots. Adrenaline heightens all my senses as each hair standing up on my arms and back of my neck are like little submarine scopes, periscopes, peeking up and swirling around, gathering intel and information on such a minute level, I cannot analyze it further. This action of getting up, of waking up, in the dead of winter, when the world is still dark and cold in morning as it is in moonlight, I’d much rather stay in bed. But there is something in this, some sick thrill in getting up before the sun, getting up before the world, my neighbors, and feeling this comforting blanket of solitude as you make your way through the motions. Advantageous routine. “Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou. One of America’s defining poems. One of America’s most defining authors and citizens and minds. I tuned in too late to the broadcast, but there are so much many papers and memories I can go through, more than can fit in a shoebox. Tying the tie, tying one on. Feel like I’m chasing some elusive dream in this pursuit of structure and order.