...chain reaction trouble site, a.k.a. home, bittersweet home, where peace, quiet and solitude are always there for you. Until morning comes, rushing its shine on the tired windows, indirectly telling you to wake up.
In a hurry, you have enough time for a fight with the iron, that refuses to make your shirt smooth, at a decent temperature; as you turn the button, you hear a sizzle that could have been pleasant, if you were in the kitchen, in front of a frying pan full of raw goods; you smell the danger of losing the important wardrobe item, so you stop a little, enough to drop the hot iron on the floor, where happens to be a green plastic bag; you quickly grab the iron, fortunately, before it cots itself in melted plastic; you silently contemplate the poor injured green bag you'd bury in the junkyard.
Your sorrow is meant to be short lived; you have to dress up and leave your safe spot. Scared of the trouble to come, you contemplate the rain; you're brave enough to face it without the help of the umbrella.