As he slowly reads Dostoevsky's The Possessed at 4 a.m. he hears the croaking and grinding of frogs erupt from the hot darkness for 20 seconds, then stop. The ceiling fan coolly whirrs and whirls above him. He rocks gently in his chair. He takes a sip of the strong, hot, perfect coffee he drinks every morning. Ahhhh! Two or three moths flit around the room. One hits the ceiling light and falls to the carpeted floor. In the distance, 18-wheelers approach and recede along busy Route 17. He rocks...rocks... rocks...The fan whirls and whirrs. He takes another sip of coffee. How silent the night! How hot! How dark!
in the east...in the west
He's lying on his mom's lap on a train somewhere in New Jersey. Hoboken? West New York? Union? Jersey City? He gazes up at his mom's lovely face. She's looking out the grimy window. At what? He feels safe, secure, happy. What could he fear? What could go wrong? The train clickety-clacks, clickety-clacks, rattles, sways, along. Where are they going? Where did they come from? His mom suddenly glances down at his clear, blue eyes, smiles, and slowly returns to gazing through the window. He sees her. Then he falls asleep....
above white roses