August 12, 2004

My room and what passes for my bed faces east, toward the angle of the rising sun. On clear days I can usually rely on the beam falling on my face to wake me, independent of technological aids. On overcast days, I sometimes end up sleeping a little longer. The hours I work are long, but they are my own.

This morning, after another week of short sleep, I slowly woke to find myself curled around the sunbeam, just at the edge of warmth, with vague memories of appropriate movement from dawn-break onwards.

The Dalai Lama I am not.

When I came to borrow the computer, a large glass jar, of the kind frequently used for canning, had moved onto the booking counter. Instead of being conventionally lidded, the top was covered tautly with a gauze screen, fastened around the lip. Inside the jar was a plant most times classed as a weed (although that classification is currently under question), along with its associated caterpillar.

Next to the jar was a sign:

Butterfly Under Construction


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