I rise each day a six in the morning, my medications calling me unerringly. Coffee is taken, and savored, one of the few flavors I truly have ever missed, much more than tea strangely, which whilst as particular to my taste does not hold the same abject desirability. I plan the day following my toiletries quite explicitly, often including a trip to meet and greet a friend or close neighbor, involving a jaunt of a mile or two, just to loosen the legs and stir the blood.
But the best laid plans of man and beast are oft left hanging, incomplete, needing just a little more drive, impetus, to be fulfilled. The chill from of sloth, indolence, do oft appear to interfere with such physical demands, suggesting rather caution, delay, belaying the excursion to a more suitable occasion. That moment being quite illusory, ineffable, sporadic, vague.
I ever have instead a short paragraph or two to contrive and incise upon some handy blank space, to be read, defaced, or ignored by any imagined awaiting audience. A number necessarily exclusive and tasteful.