Sunlight from skylight hits the edge of a pillow before another cloud passes and the pillow returns to the blue gray it knows best and in that moment I feel suspended in my epoch, my age, my century, my decade, my year, my month, my day, my hour, my minute, my second; facing backwards, reading in bed. And the flickering thought is : the most salient stuff must be felt. There is no shortcut. And this same dawning pain will be forgotten and redescribed, again and again, generation by generation, always the same, always new.