What did I like about the world? What was there besides her? And now that she was gone where was there to go when everything took the shape of her or bore her wicked memory onward?
I lay awake. It was late. Or early? This final question came in the voice of a sneering joker. What are you to do? Who are you to be with so few hours of sleep?
And as I close my eyes and think of some plan, perhaps I will buy a coffee on the way to work? perhaps I will set my alarm a half an hour ahead? It is as if some anxiety rises in me, which builds and builds, which at first keeps me up restless for long hours, but precisely at its crescendo, sends me off to sleep. My dreams like satyrs dance around it. Why do they dance?
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