Gemotions

The sun was barely up, yet the infernal racket had already begun. He tossed and turned, desperate for a few more minutes of rest, a fleeting escape from the relentless demands of his life. But it was no use. The hammering, the shouting, the incessant movement – it was all a deliberate act of spite, he was sure of it.

He slammed his fist on the bedside table. The wood offered no solace. The din continued, a cacophony of cheerful destruction. He was trapped in a prison of his own making, unable to escape the constant, unwelcome assault on his peace.

He dragged himself out of bed, his joints protesting with each movement. He needed coffee. Black, strong, and silent, a momentary shield against the world’s clamor.