It is night. What are the particular qualities of night? That darkness surrounds on all sides? That all light is contained within a hessian sack immersed in a cold, deep creek, amongst smooth, rounded stones. The fish swim above the stones – glittering and yet also invisible. The tall pine trees on the steep banks hold back the stars. Somebody drives off in an old truck, rattling and crunching up the hill to the main road. And then it is quiet. I stand for a while thinking about nothing much and then wade into the river in search of the sack, but cannot find it. I am wet through. The darkness penetrates my hands. My hands are gone. I try to whistle but make no sound. It is still raining. A roach roams about on the floor, quite close to my feet. It rushes and then stutters. Its antenna constantly twitching. It is just after 10pm. There are ways and means of making a place for ourselves in this world. I am resting on a single elbow.