As the sun crept in I lay down my pen to sleep.

The door, creaking like an old reminder, opened to reveal nothing.

A cat was not stepping gingerly. A tiger was loping towards the hills.

Over the trees a mist spread like soft butter.

A golf club lay on the driveway and a small golden bird looked alert.

The milk had been delivered as if a history book had been opened.

It was not a weekday. Life was brewing toward a memorable episode.