george street wakes up.

george street in the fifties

I'm up before six, I feel rested and I can't go back to sleep. I could never understand the early risers who'd wake up and then that was it. They'd make a cup of coffee and stay awake.

I've known a few. Hell, I've lived with a few. Frighteningly productive people they are. They have showered, caffienated and started their days a good three hours before I stir.

I've pulled more than my fair share of all-nighters over the past couple of months. I've watched George Street wake up. I haven't really woken up with George Street in a long time.

The man who I presume to be Pete, is in Pete's Subs, just sitting behind the counter, maybe counting his change. Now he's wiping tables.

Alfred, my mysterious neighbour across the street is at his computer. Someday I'm just going to wave at him, silhouetted at his window. I must look similar, with my face bathed in blue computer light. I must keep similar hours to Alfred, since see him all the time.

The bank on Brock Street just switched a light on. I can see a man in a white shirt going through and flipping the switches. The bank lights up east to west. The security guard just showed for work. He's early, the man in white just let him in.

A girl with a knapsack just walked by. She looked in my window and saw me seeing her.

I fell asleep last night at dinnertime. I've slept for something like thirteen hours.
Good morning George Street.