the cool spring air passes through a half open window with half raised blinds and the streetlight outside shines on in the black room and it is a sliver of illumination, while he lies in bed half awake and all around him is a world of halves and nothing is whole and he wishes desperately for someone to reach out and recognize creation! in the thought alone is the whole and as it passes from here to there it slowly disintegrates into a shattered pane of things; these things form the room and they color it even in darkness and that darkness is there; breathing slowly like the slow thumps of his beating heart as sleep becomes the last half and in the final seconds of its completion the entirety exists as if it were placed in front of his eyes to be acknowledged in its splendor and immensity before a second and it is gone but it was there and it is there sometimes; and we know it and cherish it and tell ourselves to document it but it is the product of the beginnings of sleep and if he were to move even an inch, if his breathing were to shift, it would escape him and he knows and knows that this is the best way because it is the only way to truly cherish it by knowing fully of its unavoidable destruction.