A good Start.

Hillbo awoke minutes before noon, and made his way to the stove and set the kettle to boil, dosed out some coffee into the french press, and then went looking for his glasses. It didn't take very long for him to do any of this, or to find his glasses for that matter, as his apartment was nothing more than a decent sized room, with stove, bed, refrigerator, and bookshelves all sharing the same space with a clamor that could seem imposing. There was a bathroom attached, with nothing more than a curtain to seperate it from the rest of the room, and a fire escape out the window over his bed. Hillbo lived on the fourth floor of the only four floor building in a shit-sea-side town, and despite the cramped, coffin effect of apartment, he was grateful to have a good view of the harbor from his fire escape. It provided a measure of relief. After making his coffee, Hillbo climbed over his bed, out the window, and sat on the fire escape. He lit a cigarette, and for the only time that day felt an immense sense of well-being.
It was March, and warm for march, but gloomy. The harbor was quiet, and after two years, he was finally able to sleep through the cacaphony of fishing boats that enlivened the town every decent morning from march until september. In a few months it would be tourist season, bringing with it a brand new type of din, and one that would start later and last longer. For the morning he was grateful.
It was a slow life, that Hillbo woke up into. It was a slow morning (already past noon) and it would be a slow day. Five books lay scattered across his floor, opened to pages at random. Our hero, for he is our hero, smokes, and looks down into the streets and breathes the fish-scented air, laden though it is with bright sea mist.

Our hero starts, leaving the butt of his cigarette in a pot that sports a brown stem, and he starts. He debates a shave, decides to not, showers, dresses, and makes his way down the flights of stairs to the street below. Hillbo starts.