Now he was awake, he might as well get up, won't get anything accomplished sitting here in bed. He knew from long experience that there was no going back to sleep. ![]() He was vaguely troubled by a dream, but it was gone, no memory remained of it, and he was up again too early, on a saturday at that. There was nothing on the desk, the chair was neatly tucked beneath, the closet door was closed, thin carpeting covered up the floor, a sort of not quite brown, it was immaculately clean. His furniture was wood a desk, a chair, the dresser, all painted chocolate brown to match the princess model phone. ![]() The sheets on the bed were white, the blanket green like neon green, the afghan patched in patterns of pastels. The walls were white, and there was nothing on them, except over by the door a poster of the General looking calm, austere, and confident. The clock was digital, it glowed in orange corners, resting on the dresser top beside the bed, next to the bending imitation bronze bedlamp. He sat up in the bed, and looked around the room. He yawned and stretched, looked at the clock, yes, eight o'clock too early. He sat up in bed and tried to classify it, but the mood eluded him. ![]() He woke up too early on a Saturday in August, with an emotion he was sure he'd never felt before.
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