Can it really be six-thirty?

You would think that a person would eventually fall asleep while lying in the dark, nice and incubated from the cold (snuggling under a blanket neither too thick nor too thin). But it hasn't happened for me, not since I woke up two hours ago. Blasted dog who is now lying outside of my bedroom door, waiting patiently for me to open the door and let her in. In about fifteen minutes, she'll lose her patience and begin pawing. Though her paws are more like punches.
I'm dreaming of scrambled eggs right now. With butter in them. And toast. Glorious breakfast food. She who is about to die salutes you.
(Note: I'm about to die only in the sense that I am mortal and thus am dying. But I won't think about that deeply right now, here in the dark, before the sun has made any headway.)
The birds still sing--they'll go on singing--and that's a comfort.
I can't make many of my dreams reality--I have no money for a MacBook--but I can make scrambled eggs. Which I shall presently do.
Ah, my cue. Cleo is knocking.