In the morning the sun’s limp yellow light creeps sullenly into the dark-filled room; particle by particle its bright- ness takes shape; it fails to dispel a gloom of more than night. Cracked eyes and stirring flesh, bedclothes cast aside; mumbled greetings, minds a-whir; the day conspires to enmesh them, like the old. Slipstreamed time too fleeting— bathe! dress! eat!—nothing settled from before; the looming day a welcome eight hours’ break from things unsaid but thought. Best not to bare words better left silent; just go and make a life of sorts, like everyone they know: work, distract, suffer through that little blow.