The Rebbe’s fist drops back onto the table, his head nods forward onto his chest, the joint slips out of his fingers. Lemuel scoops it up from the stock-market pages, passes it under his nose as if it were a Cuban cigar. He is tempted to follow the Rebbe’s example, to come at the world of chaos from another direction. In the end he decides he has had his ration of chaos for one day and stubs out the joint in an ashtray that bears the name of the hotel it was stolen from.
Removing his shoes, glancing over his shoulder at the Gnostic chaoticist snoring fitfully in his chair, Lemuel pads softly out of the room.
Like every insomniac, I have learned to use the night. When St. Petersburg was still Leningrad, I would pace my room into
