Monday, January 3, 1994. At 7:15 AM, gray daylight leaks through the blinds of your run-down house. Cold air gets in somewhere. Your pager, notebook, and pen are within reach, and the landline's quiet. There's $100 to your name, no steady work, and no record deal waiting to drop out of the goddamn sky.

Outside, a bus grinds past. Someone yells, “Move your fucking car, man!” Across the street, a guy works a screwdriver into a parked car's door while two people waiting for the bus keep their eyes elsewhere. It's broad daylight. After dark, the blocks get busier and a whole lot more dangerous, but morning doesn't stop anybody from trying shit.

Bills are coming. So is another day without a track anyone's heard. There's space in the notebook for a verse, work to hunt down, and people who might know where to record or perform. None of them owe you a damn thing. The morning's yours to use however you want.