It was the sort of morning you remember.
The sort that introduces itself with an empty twinge, the kind you can't shake off, the kind that hurts.
It was the sort of morning that leaves you wondering how you got here, why you can't run away; where were you last night?
It was the same as the morning before, and the one before that; the sort of morning you always remember, because it follows a day you can't forget.
It was getting late, she couldn't get out of bed.
The illumination of dawn had faded.
It was over. She was lightness.