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When the evening sky pulls together the lapels of its dressing gown and the pain the day brought with it slips behind the horizon like a crimson ball, the eyes of the constellations look out at nocturnal life through the dark shroud of non-existence. “Death claims his own, but he cannot claim everything from everyone,” sang the moon milkily, her light masking the night’s endlessness. Dreamless sleep seeps through the gloom; our past soundlessly sinks into it. Our present depends on whether we wake; as for our future, who can say with certainty whether we have one or not? Some of our affairs have a future, though; even some of our words, too…
Such muddled thoughts were roaming through the half-awake N.’s head until the sound of his notebook falling off the bed finally roused him.
“Why
