A bedroom by the sea.
In a small town made of white houses.
I'm in Mijas, gazing at a Mediterranean site out the window.
When it's early morning, the sun falls ferociously on the walls of the bedroom.
This happens mostly everywhere.
There is nothing special about a sunrise.
But this particular morning, it must have been about 8am, the light coming in is orange, peach-like orange.
There is a bird crying out from a nearby tree, for about 10 minutes now.
I think of myself as a woman in a Hopper painting, burning under a stroke of summer sun.
The sound of the highway is louder than the splash of the waves, though these are still audible.
It doesn't bother me.
Not really.
The room is filled in orange and I notice the fan hanging from the ceiling is not on.
Why would it be?
It's only the 26th of December.
The year feels already over.
Or perhaps never begun.
I decide to go back to sleep.
