I think morning should last all day. Every cup of coffee the first cup. Robins in the trees always just beginning to sing. Sun light bending its pastel blues over the horizon. The streets calm with the few public buses and early commutes. No calls. No news. The brain always with one foot and in the good dream from last night, and nothing needed or wanted. If morning lasted all day, no one would have time to contemplate the what-fors of hate, no time to invent their hundred-thousand judgements. Even the gods, ratty-haired, goopy-eyed would have the time to rember what condemnation means or abomination, sinner, worthy or unworthy. And everyone would look a bit like maple leaves, blown from bed to the sofa, half asleep, yesterday blurred into the pleasant fiction of our dreams.