The shrill alarm has razored sleep, torn the fabric of my dreams. I lie still, consider the slanting skylight, its edges a frame for itinerant clouds. Letting the world manage, as it does, without me. The sky’s light is in the room. It falls on the drawer not shut, on the waiting clothes, on the mirror framing the frame. The glass contains the same unhurried clouds. Sparrows squabble. Uneven footfalls - high heels in a hurry. A lorry reverses. Voices are loud then fade. Thinking how busy it all is, how we go on with the necessary things. A dog barks twice. Somewhere beyond the edge of the page, a door closes.