When I wake on endless rat-grey London mornings with only the feeblest excuse for light leaking through the gap in the curtains, nothing feels worth getting up for. Winter’s sleepiness still hangs heavy, and bed, a refuge from the cold world outside, is the only logical place to be.
A Love Letter to the First Bright Mornings
A Love Letter to the First Bright Mornings
A Love Letter to the First Bright Mornings
When I wake on endless rat-grey London mornings with only the feeblest excuse for light leaking through the gap in the curtains, nothing feels worth getting up for. Winter’s sleepiness still hangs heavy, and bed, a refuge from the cold world outside, is the only logical place to be.