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Friday morning I rouse uncommonly late even for a late-night sleeper. It’s half an hour before noon on deadline writing day. This I vaguely note from the clock of truth that hangs above a lintel — on the door below it a bejeweled cross that was a gift of the yearend holidays.

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Friday morning I rouse uncommonly late even for a late-night sleeper. It’s half an hour before noon on deadline writing day. This I vaguely note from the clock of truth that hangs above a lintel — on the door below it a bejeweled cross that was a gift of the yearend holidays.

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Hoard of morning truths

By Alfred A. Yuson | January 21, 2013 - 12:00am

Friday morning I rouse uncommonly late even for a late-night sleeper. It’s half an hour before noon on deadline writing day. This I vaguely note from the clock of truth that hangs above a lintel — on...

Arts and Culture