The screeching bray of giraffes in the distance jolts me awake.
"Long necked bastards," I mutter under my breath.
Always when I wake, I need to spit. I raise myself out of our nestbed, careful to avoid waking Adam, and make enough distance so he won't hear my spitting.
Actually, there’s a particular bush I’ve been spitting behind for the last 4 days. I have the sense that if I keep spitting here in that same spot, something will grow there. I have to see this hypothesis through of course. And I guess it’s important to note, whatever rises out of the spot would basically be my spit-child.
