Drake in the AM

Every morning, Drake Googled himself, then looked in the mirror, then went to the bathroom. First he'd make himself three to four cups of coffee. And drink a beer or two. Then he'd jog. A great, phantasmal jog, sweat profoundly effusing from his joints, his rancorous heart, his long problematic legs. They were more like chisels then legs... they were too long, they swayed to one side or the other. In short he had trouble getting not where he wanted to go, but deciding upon anything. It was if his heart were in remission, recovering from a glaring transmission of something as deadly as cancer or as innocuous as childbirth.

In other words, Drake was a maniac. After the 7 AM sweat-run, he'd take a shower and pound out an orgasm or three in the confines of his dusty apartment. He didn't believe in pornography and instead relied upon the graphic interior of his mind, all swelling and contingent upon strange continents for its fragile alignment. The jogging helped this all, of course.

Then, around 8 O'clock, he'd start talking to himself.

"Time get out of the shade of the weeds," was a common cat-call to get the morning started. "Time to pull myself out of these acrimonious suggestions of lament."

Then, he'd run down the stairs, careful to duck lest he hit his head on a jutting short part of the ceiling, and explode with laughter upon bottoming out. He routinely couldn't stop himself and tripped through the glass window. For this reason he was badly scarred and nobody could stand to look at his face, always scarlet with duress and battle.

Eventually he got up, dried off the blood, and went to Aroma, a local coffee shop hot spot amongst the sexually active and middle-aged laborers.