Percolate.
That must be what I’m doing. I’m letting my ideas warm up, bubble to the surface, and drop before I can fully grasp them.

My head is hazy, like the wisps of dreams are hanging on, veiling my reality. The morning sun is just a little too bright on my counter top. I look down at my toes.

My head is still heavy. My eyelids are heavy too. I don’t want to get up this early. My thoughts are sporadic, the ideas are fleeting. If I wrote now it would come out a cacophony, a mish-mash of words with no direction.

The coffee maker stops, daring me to get up and pour a steaming cup. I grab my toaster waffles. While they toast, the coffee cools and cinnamon wafts on top of the bitter aroma of dark beans.
Waffles.
You’d think I’m waffling if you read what I would produce in the morning, half-awake. You wouldn’t ‘get’ me unless you were in my head seeing the connections I’m making. I need some syrup.
Maple Syrup.
If the caffeine doesn’t wake me, the sugary syrup will. Or make me fat. One or the other.