He woke up. Although it was not such a simple process as it might seem. Conciousness and varying aspects of it return to full function at different times, it seemed, at least for him. He found himself increasingly aware of his surroundings only subconciously at first, as they slowly worked their way into his dreams.

He was in this state when some loud noise from outside his room caused a momentary arousal in his concious mind. For a moment it seemed as if he would rise, but he soon realized that the distraction was a temporary one and he had no need to awaken so soon - he seldom did. He cursed himself silently under his breath for not being able to sleep more soundly and not enjoying it as much as he should, and set himself to sleep once again with renewed resolve, or lack thereof.

Several hours later the process started again. The outside world slowly crept into his dreams, of which he would remember little other than they were slightly unnerving, and kept his sleep that night tumultous. Eventually, conciousness set in and he began to take stock of his situation. It bothered him, as it often did, that he couldn't remember his dreams and that he probably should, since they seemed so important at the time.

He looked about his bedroom. Everything seemed to be as he left it, and once again, in his haste to fell asleep the night before, he had forgotten to open the window slightly, and so the stale, slightly nauseus smell he was so used to pervaded his room. He wondered about his room, his apartment, as he so often did - whether the unnamed and unknown "visitor" would find it acceptable, what it would signify about his life to the visitor, what the visitor would think of it. He thought rather timidly in the back of his mind that the room was not decorated for himself, but rather for whomever might visit it. But then, perhaps not, and perhaps not as much as others. His room had not the quality of a socialite's apartment. It was not ostentatiously decorated, nor was everything of modern and fashionable style. Still, he could not escape the notion that it was decorated for the sake of others. He reflected sadly that there were few others for which this was practically true, and turned again to the thoughts of his unnamed visitor which he had yet to meet.

This visitor to my room must surely be female, he had decided. He had not been ever able to escape fully the idea of most interaction being based in sexual desire. And whatever arguments he could come up with against the case, he knew that deep within him it was probably not the case with him. So, then, the visitor would probably be female.

Finally, then, he began to wake up.

He reached the familiar landmark of wondering what he was to do with today, and realized that he had finally waken up beyond redemption, and this caused him some irritation.

He had only lived in this apartment for a short time at this point. He got out of bed and headed towards the bathroom. He cursed himslef silently, as he did most every morning, for being a slave to routine at all, even so far as it required him to take a shower every morning. He cursed his body for being so oily, and thought, as he often did, about how much he would like to take a shower at night or two in the same day, and wondered why he didn't actually do it.

It occurred to him at this point that if he was wondering about the value of routine so soon after waking up in the morning, he was probably getting too much sleep.

He stepped into the shower while thinking about this. He had tried to pay attention throughout his life to how much sleep he got and what effect it had upon him, but thus far in his life, he had come to no firm conclusions and wasn't sure if any were to be reached. He wasn't at all surprised by this, and mused that he'd probably never strike a balance in his life and in his sleep and then began to wonder if it even mattered. It seemed rather petty, he thought, to worry about how much sleep he gets on any given night. He felt rather ashamed for putting so much thought into what he thought surely must be a frivolous subject. Unfortunately, this did little to curb his meanderings on sleep schedules, and his shame for worrying about it got him caught up in that so familiar vortex of opposing and mutually cancerous ideals that he had so begun to dread.

He slapped the shampoo onto his head and wondered how he had ever arrived at this brand. He didn't remember conciously choosing it. He liked the smell, he had to admit, and it seemed to be that right combination - the right combination that he was looking for in everything. It wasn't expensive, but it seemed to be selective. He was more than a little annoyed that he worried about this, too, but reassured himself with the thought that everyone else probably did, too.

He got out of the shower and wondered if it would happen today. Of course he knew if wondering if it would happen was tantamount to making it happen, and indeed it did. He had no idea why, and no way to explain it, but every morning, or nearly every one - of course he never noticed the mornings it didn't happen - he had the same vision. It was more of a flicker, really, and he had no reason for it. It came from years ago, from a meaningless Television Show he had once watched. It was just an image - from that same show, every morning for no reason. It bothered him to some extant, but not too much, and he mentioned it to a few of his friends a previous day.

"That's rather odd.." Marcell mused, "You always were rather strange."

Nothing infuriated him more than the frequent comments he received that described him as abnormal in nature. "Shouldn't I worry about it? What do you think is causing it?" he persisted.

"How should I know? And do you really care?" was Marcell's half amused, half annoyed reply.

He had thought it was pointless to press the issue, and rarely mentioned it out loud since. He couldn't help worrying, though, every morning. It seemed somewhat abnormal. He couldn't help wondering if this was common, and again if it mattered.

He had often thought he was absolutely free on a day when he soon realized he had more commitments and upcoming engagements that day than he had previously planned. Today was just such a day. He had began debating whether he should eat now or later and what he should eat and whether he was eating too much when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi! Are you ready?"

He frequently encountered this situation before. He had always told himself, as had many acquaintances who had had to endure this forgetfulness of his, that he should write whatever appointments he had down. But he never considered his appointments that important, nor his life and its events that important, to write them down. Indeed, people did not write appointments down for themselves, but for others who need to keep track of them. In his life, fortunately or no, there was no such person, and hence, in his logic, no need for written record. Besides, he had always managed for the most part, even if situations such as these were not rare.

He pondered proceeding as if he knew who the person was, and then the advantages of outright asking ready for what. He saw again that the decision could take up hours if he let it, and decided that when in doubt, honesty should prevail, even if it was a somewhat insencere sounding honesty.

"For?" he innocently inquired, rightfully hoping that any hint the person gave could save him the embarrasment of asking who it was.

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