We woke up early today, earlier than usual. But no day’s sleep can really be called that: usual. Even after resorting to sleeping apart. Alone. Last night it was the storm that did its work to undo his dreams. The night before: the cat slinking in to settle on his chest, weighing on it like the burden of sleeplessness. Tonight he’s certain it will be something else, perhaps something thus far unperceived, unacknowledged: a spider bite like the one suffered in Japan all those years ago. His ankle swollen the size of a grape and then of a golf ball. Or the city’s sirens warning of the impending tornado. Spring is a violent season. Perhaps only Stravinsky understood just how violent, with Diaghilev backstage flashing the lights off and on. There was that storm in Paris ninety-nine years ago today, the day we again woke up far too early.