I've been getting up early these past few weeks—before the alarm most days. It must be the light, though my blinds are drawn.

Some weeks ago I was sleeping late and deep, sticking thick in that throgged bliss where my body has no weight, and people come and go without the fleet feeling, the disappearance, the attenuation.

Now I'm alert early, and biking across town before my alarm goes off. It would be obscene to say I attack my work with a passion, but I work late and it is all I do; I am obsessed, or addicted.