The incomplete drowsiness would continue on and off all day. I was both a body on the verge of sleep and a mind determined to stay awake. My physical self was drifting through the feeble morning light, and all the while it could feel my mind staring, breathing, close beside it. I would feel a hint of drowsiness, but my mind was there, in its own room, on the other side of a transparent wall, watching me. My fingertips were just barely brushing against the outermost edge of sleep. I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.įinally, as the sky began to grow light in the morning, I’d feel that I might be drifting off. It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue. I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. The reason I hadn’t washed my clothes or my hair was because it seemed so silly. My mother told me I must have slept, it was impossible not to sleep in all that time, but if I slept, it was with my eyes wide open, for I had followed the green, luminous course of the second hand and the minute hand and the hour hand of the bedside clock through their circles and semi-circles, every night for seven nights, without missing a second, or a minute, or an hour. Having some physical activities during the day.sleeping or sex and not a place for chatting or snacking.
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