The Long Curve that is the Route

On our journeys north into Germany, we tend to choose a departure time that is, as I would term it in a former life, too early to be alive. My former self who lived in this so-called former life would be shocked to know that in reality, my present self tends to get up quite early, or at least much earlier than the so-called former self did. Many hours earlier. Days, even. Epochs, even. As they say, the early pteranadon snatches the busily scurrying rodent from its so-called orderly life and into the shabbily assembled nest of doom. As I was writing, on our journeys north into Germany, we tend to choose a departure time that is slightly earlier than my usual time of suctioning myself from the limbo of sleep and into a waking world of wonder. Yesterday, or, as my mind perceives, several weeks ago, on my birthday, this awakening happened v půl páté. I scrubbed the filth accrued during my time in limbo from my body after lumbering to our capacious kitchen to create and quickly gulp down…