(one reader reads the English version, the other reader reads a French translation simultaneously. The volume evolves progressively so that sometimes the English is louder and the French is whispered, and other times it’s the other way round).

Seven o’clock in the morning

See a point in the universe, get up close to it, closer, yes, closer still, you will see a city, closer still, a place in this city, in the heart of one of these buildings on the cityscape you know so well, and closer still, a house, also familiar to you, and next to which a tree grows, and upon which a bird sings.  
       The bird’s pick-me-up melody spreads, stretches, reaches out right up to your bed, where the last notes come to you, like in a dream.
       Your alarm clock, not in the least concerned which such melodious effects, reminds you without further ado, that the day has begun.  As though in echo, as though recognizing one of its partners, the bird strikes up again the first notes of its melody.  You follow along, for five minutes, you don’t notice the time passing.  But the alarm does not give in so easily, and reminds you again, this time with kick, that your night is indeed at an end.  The bird, taken aback with such hostility, stops its singing, and flies off its branch, which has suddenly become hostile terrain.
       Triumphantly, as though victor in a battle, the alarm clock starts up again with renewed vim and vigor.  In spite of your best efforts to resist, you eventually allow the sound penetrate your ear, still muffled, still sleepy.  You open one eye, so as not to have to open two.  You hail your alarm clock to be quiet, its hour of glory at an end, and you chance a shy glimpse out the window, but upon seeing the rain pummeling down outside, you close your eye as abruptly as you had sent it out on its inspection assignment.  No point in beginning a day which in any event, promises nothing good.
       Luckily (or not), Minogue, your little black, green-eyed cat, knows you too well to leave you to it, and in a leap, she is on top of you, her paw on your face, letting it be known that no end to the mayhem was in sight, you getting up or what?  Your night has gone on but too long.  A brief moment of surprise passes, quickly followed by a moment of renunciation, you give in, and you get up progressively : if you are sitting, that may be considered progress.  Goddamn Minogue.
       Still asleep, you head to the toilet : this is where your mind, calm and concentrated, may awaken tenderly, as it deserves.  Nothing : on this day, nothing doing.  Try as you might, worry as you might, wait as you might, push as you might with all your might, nothing.  Could you have eaten something bad? Do you have an intestinal problem?  Gotta remember to check Doctissimo.  For a distraction—and where better to distract yourself?—you check your favorite sites on your phone, required introductions to your day surfing the webs (yes, the same ones that everyone checks, Twitter, Facebook, Google plus, News of course—you never claimed to be original).  This makes you happy, these daily rituals which provide you access to the world, to the universe, without even having to get up off your seat.  And here comes the twist, your body none the wiser, relaxed and let go, your pipes get to working normally again, and not without a little effort, you dump what you’ve got to dump, wipe, inspect the product with pride, and, not without relief, you flush.  You can now carry on with the breezy, effortless choreography of the morning:  shower, dry your hair, shave, brush your teeth, the end.  No effort wasted. 
       The similar, yet perhaps more anguished choreography of getting dressed.  You’re going to have to find the underwear, the tee-shirt, the pants, the socks and shoes which will make it so that on this gray and monotonous day, you will look like none other than yourself, your everyday self, the one accompanying you from the day you were born, the one you look at and see in the mirror, and that you recognize, without any particular relish.  You seem pale, the white shirt’s no good.  You try the green one, but remain skeptical.  You try the blue, but is it too much?  You try the mauve, unconvinced.  You think back to the woman you’re going to see today, this phenomenon you haven’t met yet but who is going to cross your path, and will no doubt reveal herself to be the love of your life that you’ve been waiting for since always.  Only the white shirt could live up to such an adventure.  With a striped tie preferably.  Awesome.  You’re ready.
       Now is your favorite phase of the morning : breakfast.  Effort is always minimal, the choreography, always simple:  a button, the coffee comes out, a sugar cube, a stirrer, another button, the burners heat up, you crack the egg against the pan with the graceful art of one who does that every day, not a drop escaping. If eggs and bacon are a make-over for the morning mass’s wafer, the buttered toast is its juicy receptacle.  Wait for it. First mouthful.  The coffee burns, as on every morning, and you promise to be patient tomorrow. You let it cool while listening to news radio, and the weather woman’s voice confirms what you already knew, that the day promises nothing good : it will be cloudy, with hints of sun in the begining of the afternoon, rainy, and in any case, cold all day long.  You jot down a mental post-it to take your umbrella, which is always useful (as a pick-up prop as much as to avoid getting wet).