If your morning were to be narrated by a Dungeon Master, who also happened to be Edgar Allen Poe, who happened to be on some hypnotic drug at the same time:
You rise - immediately, a dark feeling wraps around you. You feel an unfortunate truth sitting in the air. You walk, slowly, into the kitchen, the floor creaking beneath you, sending futile warnings. You must replenish your energies, quench your sudden and overpowering thirst. The pantry is bare. Bare, empty, hollow - like your fear-stricken eyes. You fill a vessel with mere water and let it slide, unsatisfyingly, down your parched throat. Yet you know that this thirst will not soon abate. How long must your soul be tortured so, you ask desperately?
You feel an ethereal pull to the core of the dwelling. Something calls to you, and you know that you must answer. You step, creak by creak, towards the damp chamber of solitude. It is small. It is cramped. You will be trapped. You cannot pause. You enter the chamber; the door is slammed shut.
Your clothes fall off of you; you understand that there is something primal about this experience. You stand in fierce, unforgiving streams, drowning, drowning and drowning, and you stand! Your unresting mind sifts through portentous thoughts as you are covered, enveloped in wet solitude. Your spirit mumbles, cries, engaging in unholy touch with the Deeper Dimension. You cannot see - you cannot see. Your eyes are closed.
As you emerge from the chamber in a misty, sinister haze, you realize that you are not the same. You are some otherworldly creature. You plod, squishing, to your room, vest yourself in new clothes. Can you ever be the same again?
Yeah, I'm done. I tried narrating my morning out loud, ominously, to Edward. He just criticized my diction, and it didn't have nearly as dramatic an effect as I hoped. I invite you all to do this. If you dare...