Repetition is all that I am. She wakes from a disjointed and disorienting dream to the familiarity of her bed and her room. What is left each morning is what I must pick up and carry with me through the day. She rolls onto her side and watches the curtains shift with air. The sun has wrested itself from the earth again. Carry it with me into the dark again and hope that I do not lose it before the day. Her eyes are focused on the thin fabric of the curtain but suddenly they focus automatically on what is beyond - a blurred tree - a roof - indistinct clouds. Or hope to lose it completely.