The tunnel clears and the break of day is revealed. The mist that infuses the morning is clearing, bathing the world in a thick milky lilac as it rises to the sky. The horizon lies ghostly and removed, as if another world that we can see but not touch. The foreground is brought closer through an intrusive sharpness and a need to know the world in which we travel.

My eyes adjust to the world in front of me, battling with the rush of light, and the dream state that still follows me. The sun erupts into the sky, it's vibrant magma catching the coat tails of the clouds and accenting the morning with golds and reds as it pulses across the day.

Here then is a new day, the energy of that fiery ball - chaotic and illuminating, churns out into our world, turning the sky from black to glowing azure, it's pinkish fingers clutch at the day selfishly; but our existences falls through its fingers, so edges are highlighted, facades silouetted and surfaces gleam out the reflections of us, who are still haunted by sleep, as we stutter towards our present and our future. I nod in gratitude of the epic presented to me through the window.

My campaign against sleep being routed, I implore the assurance of espresso and croissant, and the spirit of Kipling, to outflank the massed forces of the night and turn the day from disaster to triumph.

If I can note the beauty of the morn, and not let sleep overcome me the rhythm of the train; if I can take the kick of coffee without a dribble to be seen; if I can open my eyes and take in what surrounds without the episodic break, then I'll be awake and get to work today.

Okay, good, awake now - well done me.