I ly in bed and listen: the ratchet ticking of my wind-up clock; the rain playfully knocking at my plastic window; the sound of my roommate talking on phone. I ly and see: the clouds are glowing a tragic orange; the dead pine tree's branches twist into the shape of a wailing fox-maybe its friend died? I ly and think about home: St. Louis, my Greek father-who gave me my first language-and my !Xhosan-Swedish mother-who showed me the joy reading. Weird. we never remember falling asleep, but we all do it. Dormito et spero, morti.
