Vale - n. river-land between two ranges of hills, c.1300, from Old French val "valley," from Latin vallem (nominative vallis, valles) "valley." Vale of years "old age" is from "Othello." Vale of tears "this world as a place of trouble" is attested from 1550s.

Vale woke, groggy and slightly damp. The lower left half of his face, uncomfortably cool and saliva moistened, pressed tensely into his pillow, his right eye opened just a slit to peer through crusted eyelashes in an effort to gauge the brightness of his room. The effort yielded a dogged observation; the sunlight streaming through his dusty quarters was indeed an unfortunate occurrence. Had the birds decided at this moment to begin their ritual morning cacaphony, Vale would have given earnest consideration to ending his existence in the spittle currently pooled about his nostrils. The damn birds were silent tho, and Vale was somewhat dissappointed to find he still had reason to breathe.

Some remnant of a dream was just beyond reach, calling him back to an unattainable slumber. He turned his face into a crease in the blanket in an attempt to shield his eyes from the ever intrusive daylight. The light was muted, but the air pocket he made quickly became stifled and filled with the odiferous tang of morning breath. He spent ten begrudging minutes staving off suffocation before succumbing to an intolerably bright and cheery morning. 

He didn't give in without a fight. One leg out, too cold. Warmth always wins, foot returned. This is where Vale heartily chastised himself for choosing the comfort of nude repose. He finally sat up fully engulfed in the cover, his hooded eyes and the cold tip of his nose the only visible clue to his human form. Were a soul to view him from any other angle, they'd undoubtedly mistake him for a giant animated cocoon lumbering awkwardly towards the door.

The hall was dim, no offensive sunlight in this short corridor. He forced his eyelashes open with a bizarre eye rolling, sleep-crust cleaving manuever  perfected by decades oversleeping. He headed towards the kitchen giving only a passing thought to stopping at the bathroom; he did have to pee, but it could wait. The thought of hot black coffee kept his feet shuffling kitchen bound.

His grandfather's trailer (or was it a cabin? These distinctions were always elusive to Vale) was tight, maybe four proper rooms if you included the bathroom. The air was always stale; it smelled like the seventies and dead ladybugs. There really was only one non-depressing room in the whole dwelling and that was the kitchen. Whenever he entered that space his mood inevitably lightened. Vale always felt palpably more at ease in there, perhaps it was all the old memories of late night set-back tournaments & lively conversations with his Grampaw or maybe the old man's spirit was just hanging around to keep him company as was his wont in life, in any case Vale's usual ante meridiem crankiness dissipated in short order.

The kitchen was substantially warmer, comfortable enough to disrobe. Vale stood strategically in the lone wide beam of sunlight, his bare feet delighting in the heat emanating off of the aged linoleum. He searched the cabinets for coffee while absentmindedly kicking his cover back towards the hallway. The search would prove futile. Tea would have to suffice. He was sure there was some tea, hiding in an ancient tin somewhere... He just hoped it wasn't herbal.

Good old Grampaw, he never bothered to have any utilities connected. Vale was honestly surprised the plumbing worked when he first took over the place. He didn't know if it was because the old man was cheap or just disinterested in modern amenities, but he'd come to appreciate the simplicity of not paying those particular bills, so he kept with the tradition. He'd found the tea and it was the good stuff.  Vale grabbed the old fashioned tea kettle off  the unused stove and filled it with water. He dropped in two bags (who knew how long ago Grampaw had squirreled this stuff away) and headed, still quite completely naked, outside to the propane grill to deposit the vessel.

 He lit it and waited for the whistle to blow pausing momentarily to ponder the likelihood of an unexpected morning visit from his closest neighbor. That could prove awkward, he thought, and willed the pot to make haste with the brewing.

His neighbors stayed home. Vale returned indoors and contemplated, briefly, dressing. It was technically spring, and currently balmy, but with closer observation, one could see the remnants of ice-cicles melting off of the eaves of the house and partially budded trees. An end of season snowfall had left the landscape a perplexing mix of sparkling ice sculptures and sprouting dandelions. He was warm enough.

He sat at the old formica dinette, that wondrous invention some genious in the sixties had imagined, and positioned and repositioned his bare buttocks several times. The dingy yellow vinyl seat gave a stisfying snap against his skin with each undertaking; he wondered if Grampaw would approve.

Vale stared absently at the vortex he just created in his cup of tea, unaware that his sugar had long since dissolved.  Two years of half finished (or was it half started?) ideas spiraled in tandem with his Earl Grey, like the liquid, butting some impenetrable wall until, with unceremonious certainty, they were once again, still. 

He could write a book he contemplated bemusedly, of half finished ideas... if only he could get half-started.