One morning, I ended up under the wheels of a tram. I don't remember a thing from that day. I went to hell. Or maybe heaven. Or anything in between. I simply died, and the trip was better than any psychedelic I’ve ever taken. Then, on another winterish, sunny morning, I woke from my coma. Doctors said I would never be able to talk or walk again due to my brain injury. Fast forward. Now, I wake up without any IVs, bad news, alarm clocks, panic, or chaos. My mornings are beautiful. I am horny for life, and I celebrate it with gratitude. This is how I wake: I run five miles. I have sweaty sex. I make breakfast. I double-shot an espresso or a cappuccino. And I always ritually smoke two lucky cigarettes with my coffee. Despite the doctors' prognosis, my mouth never shuts. Most people have no idea what it means to feel the light of life every morning. The world wakes to death, not to life. Therefore, most people's daily stories are predictably fucked. But not my story. I’ve already been dead. It’s boring out there. Too many saints.

So, this year—two thousand twenty-five—I take pictures of myself some mornings. I document the mood of the sun. And yes, time is only light. And that light is either everything or nothing.