Every moment of every day is lying in bed at 9:30 on a Sunday morning, and you've missed church. You're sunny side up, wearing a negotiated level of clothing. Are you alone? It is bright, but not white, piercing - yellows, calm, draperies. You can feel it, even in the reflections of the darkest corners of the room. It's all brighter. You are listless. You have no idea what your story is, how you might tell it, who you might tell, or whether it is worth remembering.
You will not fall back asleep. You will not even close your eyes, you are past your sleepiness. It takes more effort now to close your eyes than to keep them open. You will stay. It is quiet. It will be quiet at lunch, when you watch the birds outside the window. It will be quiet at sunset, when you walk down the streets of your neighborhood. It will be quiet at the end of the day, when you've settled into some reading or writing or other soft knowledge or entertainment to be gained before the bed ritual again. It will be quiet at the end.
The day will take a long time. But it will never happen. Because every moment of every day is telling your mind to never move, never move! from this bed. You will accept it, the way you accept any trade. Gaze now, between the layerings of light. You might as well. This is the biggest visible empty you have ever known.
STOP.
Your eyes fall sideways.
(Who's there?)