I had slept pointing west, woke to the massive grid of windows filled with pink skies, fractured clouds, piled red and white. I wondered about the nature of this hellish new day.
I believed I could wake before those windows forever, to regard each morning broken and remade again and again.
In his partitioned bedroom Dennis slept, three walls enclosed in the open heart of the warehouse. The clock by his head held a disk, left in it for years. Slow metal erupted at a specific time, the same song.
I heard. I thought only of the notes, the lush fabric of sound as it turned, flowed, wrapped in the feedback of itself.
The song faded and I rose, and everything was once again irrevocably changed.