There sing in the early morning, in the darkness before dawn, the hooting nightbirds. What they mean and what they say, what longing lodges in their breasts, to me unsounded mystery, but I would not have a world or a morning without them. It is right for them to hoot even as I wish I could crawl back into bed.
I am so tired, and I do not know how or if I can keep going. Some days, it feels like I’ll keel over at any moment. My bosses can’t hide their disdain for my generation that is always tired.
Tale Told 