A small room inside a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

I roll over and reach for the book at the top of the stack, reading aloud its title as if speaking to the person next to me, "Good Morning, Midnight," and from there I wonder, If this is writing, would I have to write this title in italics as well?

Opening the book at random, I read: "I know all about myself, I know. You've told me so often. You haven't left me one rag of illusion to clothe myself in."

I set down the book and think of the author's relationship with a man who was described by Ezra Pound like this: "if he were place naked and alone in a room without furniture, I would come back in an hour and find total chaos."

Illusion's wardrobe, nudity's chaos. Shall I roll over and go back to sleep, or get up, get dressed and launch myself into this cold blue world?