at 4:48, I remember it from her last play, the darkest time for her, bang in the middle of the graveyard shift. The small hours. But that’s pushing five, you’re only an hour from six and normal life for a lot of people, buses and postmen and happy bakers setting out their shelves. I can easily watch the light coming for an hour, plan out the day to come, canter around in the past. Earlier is worse for me. I’d go for 3:05 as optimum grimness, the first flash from the phone, eyes open and fully awake. Too soon for six and first coffee. Too late to be up watching movies or flicking through Bukowski’s laments. That’s when you sink down into the mattress, heavy as a submarine settling in some hadal pit, too deep to ever swim up from. Too late to turn the lights on for a spell. Too early to try not to get back to sleep, though sleep feels like some impossible mystery, not for the likes of me. Who has the keys to sleep? Five-mile walks help. I was down in Cold Ash to fix the car, had to kill two hours, found a quiet lane to wander. And swam in sleep ’til 8.
