Prodigal Son

摘要

I am floating gently upward out of a dark, dreamless sleep, my mind slowly sparking into wakefulness and struggling to make sense of muddled stimuli. I am snuggled in a nest of silky material, my face exposed to the morning chill; I smell faint mildew and earthy petrichor. Soft noises fade in-chirping birds, raindrops pattering on canvas. For a moment, I could swear I hear yodeling in the distance, though I quickly dismiss this as a waking absurdity.