Wake up every day, consciousness blunted in shadows of closed shades. Promising to be different, swing thighs over the edge of the bed while anchoring the weight of the torso rising. Imagine the creaking gristle around the heart rebellion against this daily sense of death curdling at the edges in the sentiment of the morning rise. You are not just an automaton, an organic crane, giving yourself pep talks to get up and do this thing again. Oh wait, first stare into the blank wall trying to remember the escape projected from the transmitting brain – dreamscapes meant to distract from the growing concept that you are lying to yourself daily hinted in the dead pan way you stare at said wall. Blink. Now inhale deep sweeping the cobwebs spun haphazard in the emptiness burrowed inside and blow those fuckers out. This is what we call depression. Getting up and out of bed is what we call the first response in treatment.