Eventually I stir. An hour later I get up, announce myself to the empty quiet house, and shamble off to the shower, then breakfast, eggs perhaps with some fruit and Usenet. I procrastinate, then I leave. Like everyone, I have work to do.
The streets are mostly empty; it's been raining. The sun shines across the hills from its early afternoon perch just above the horizon, white rays cast from a golden source to match the deciduous trees in their brief season of glory. I meet a few students returning from classes as I traverse the fraternity district on my way to my daily appointment with the local transit system. They say nothing. I respond in kind.
Standing at the bus stop, with the wind catching my coat, I covet my neighbor's mocha. I briefly consider stealing off to a nearby coffee house for one of my own, but soon the bus arrives and removes me from such temptations.
In summer I would walk or ride, from home down to the canal, across, and up the steep hill. But this season brings out my sedentary nature, and I let the city's tireless electric servant bring me to the small commercial district spread along the top of the ridge. As I debark, the sun is going down, and the streets are just waking up. There's an espresso cart which hovers near this bus stop; sometimes it reminds me of my earlier thirst and I talk briefly as my milk is steamed and my cream whipped.
The soft undersides of the clouds are tinted a thousand subtle shades by the sun, now set but loath to let us forget it, as I let myself into the small house a few blocks away. The other occupants of the house would be asleep or dead, if they had ever been alive, but they were not born to either privlege. I put on some music and prepare to spend the evening bringing them a little closer. That's what I do. I'm a hacker.