Something about my being in darkness, in deep quiet, translucent petals of plum trees on the pavement, rotating like a planet troubled by gravity shifting from one edge to the other. Unable to put my finger on a bulb in a darkened closet, or step through a canyon covered in wildflowers, rolled up in blankets without a leaf blower or chainsaw in sound sight. Who can sleep with a tennis racket? I tried. All night I tried.
Did that mean a pillow over my head to muffle the horn-blowing, suffocate my own self-interest for the single purpose of a good night’s sleep, or better yet, purchase a pair of earplugs from the corner drug store, the kind you use to block out droning during international flights, a pretense because the airwaves, even at 10,000 feet, are always hovering? Whatever you call it, had to keep listening. Call me Odysseus tied at the stakes.