I’m alone like a cabdriver who sleeps in his taxi dreaming of childhood. Red geraniums. Black currants. Sleep, invariably, is a still life for the lonely.
Last night I dreamt of my father, now long gone, who appeared beside a tall window at dusk, snow falling, and he was abosrbed, reading a book. I said, in the murmurous way of all sleepers, “that’s just as it was in life…”
Today the sun is as strong as before. We’re allotted approximately 3 billion heartbeats in this life.