I sit on the edge of the bed.  I notice that my grandfather's travel clock has stopped ticking. I wind it up, not caring to reset the time, not needing to, I just want to hear the tick, it is the only memento of 'sound' that I have left, what with the squeak having died when Little Ted got 'lost' at the lake, and I don't even have the audio tape of my grandfather's retirement speech (he threw it in the garbage) within which grampy's boss told the audience about my grandfather's work history, from becoming an apprentice carpenter at the age of 14, unable to take advantage of the scholarship he had won for the local grammar school, to working as a quantity surveyor along the south coast of England, indeed, he was one of the people who worked on the restoration of the Russian Palace in Brighton, anyway, I wound up the clock and then noticed that the computer clock said 1815, I got fully into bed and saw that the purple ballet top is draped over the light shade above the bed, a quick alteration, taking away the glare, I'm too in between three worlds to be able turn off the light, nothing has normalised, there is no night and there is no day, there is no dark and there is no light, there is no meaningful time, it's just time that has passed, and with it, very little to remember the day by, other than it being another survived at a base level;  isolated, lost, waiting for a miracle, a miracle for what? And therein lies my dilemma.