The next morning the same old light bled through the clouds and between the spaces of the sun-bleached blinds where it died on the floor as “The Sad Cafe” played, and I turned in bed to silence the alarm.

I thought of Heidegger–“Only a god can save us now.”–and of Faulkner–“I don’t. I don’t! I don’t hate it! I don’t hate it!” The führer and the fury, or its cousin.

The sun neither sets nor rises. Instead we close our eyes and call it night while the earth is thrown by an abscess of light like moths by a flame who on passing too close fall from flight with torched wings, burning down the bowels of morality.

I realized that I would one day go blind if I kept reading in the morning without my glasses, so I got up, stepped into a hot shower and tried to wash the weakness from my eyes.