A Monday morning right at rush hour, lying in bed with egyptian cotton sheets, in a high-rise apartment in Boston or New York, maybe even Charlotte, with the sound of horns honking, birds chirping, sirens in the far off distance, maybe a plane, and the sun crawling across the bedroom floor, stretching awake and knowing that I can stay in bed and sleep until I am ready to get up and write my column for the day and be done working.
Or
A Monday Morning right at dawn, when the sun is just peaking out, stretching awake in a bed of Egyptian cotton sheets, listening to the birds and the waves crashing against the shore. Maybe a boat horn off in the distance. Rolling over, hitting snooze, getting out of bed, putting on a robe, grabbing my laptop, a cup of coffee and sitting on the porch in the company of the ocean and the sunrise, writing a daily column or a novel, maybe I am on Cape cod, Palm Beach, or Key West.
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