It's 3:45 in the morning again. It's 3:45 in the morning and her french vanilla coffee tastes like a gin and tonic without the fizz. It's 3:45 in the morning and Segovia is starting to pluck in slow motion left handed. It's 3:45 in the morning and she can't internalize political theory anymore, because in a few hours she's going to sit down at a breakfast table, drink a medium orange juice, no pulp, and define autonomy. In a few hours, with business handshakes and surgical formality, she will remove herself from her childhood of never being young. John Winthrop says that the end of authority is liberty. What is the end of indifference?
When does the world stop spinning? When does the cancer get cured, or the nuclear nonsense, or the child who aged too early, or the adult who never aged at all? I've started saying the Shema again. But it isn't because I want something to believe in. It's because I need to call out and shake someone.
Welcome to insomnia. I, the amenable, have been manipulated by clocks. It's still in C minor, but the time's cut and syncopated. My mind rattles away in diminished seconds. How long can we remain suspended? How long before the tension uproots us?
We resolve to a Jeremiad.
