ashes, coffee, the smell of burning wood, are all the things she enjoyed in the morning. At the break of dawn, something else loved her too, the way she breaks herself though she was no contortionist was beautiful. Even without being confined in the hollowness of a glass, she was still heady. Who wouldn't want to drink it? And yet. But she was the sickness the morning wasn't very fond of. For, and this is true, at the crack of dawn, Dawn rejects like her like water. That's the moment, she stopped being scared of all her ghosts, and they became wary of her, all their screams like their rage were silent, like a numinous absence, all of this too watery. But who is staring at whom at this point, who could even tell. All she could burn were her memories. Burn them, she did. She burned them all, her ghosts too helpless not to help, they watched them perish together, all the memories. But something other than her was enjoying all of this and there was much to enjoy