Day 5


Some afternoons you sleep for an hour and you dream some dream so distant that as you wake up–as you sit up in bed and touch the familiar sheets, the familiar wall, and look at the familiar room in a feeble, almost panic-stricken attempt at gathering the security of your bearings–as you wake up, you are filled with a momentary dread that you have been living a sham of a life; that time moves on relentlessly; that nothing has ever truly mattered and ever will, perhaps not even your life although it is nothing but matter. And so you stare at the wall, or the ceiling, for one long moment–for one quiet moment long enough for you to be able to register the unmistakable throbbing of your pulse, singing you are and that you’re here–and that should amount to something.


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