Brushing my teeth naked, in the mirror I see the bruises on my arms. I read them like news, placing my fingers quizzically on the blue-brown spots. I'm Jeremy Brett playing Holmes. What happened here?
My back hurts, but it cannot tell me why.
I haven't had an honest eight o'clock since my thirties. Oh, there were the handful of tense nights when I held out—cheerfully manic, determined, then, finally, just jittery and sad.
Gone are the nights of painting, or Schumann, or a 10-gallon Dostoevsky.
The audio of my nights is lost, too, like a microphone placed too far from the action—the gunshots in Dealey Plaza. Something was said: expostulation, and reply. Shots rang out—were there three, or four?—and I went to bed. Do I remember, or did I just dream?
In the morning, an umpire raises his fist, but he hasn't enough fingers. I make coffee and await my fate.
