fig.298.08) The bitch of my sleep, there ain't no one here with me. I wake in my limitless bed. Feeling thin and aggrieved, my punchy thoughts aswim in my eyes. A genius of tides is rolling on from my witless boots now hung above the board of the floor's long walk. "Yes, I'm chaff," speaking to the clown on my right. She's magnificent, so I name her nightingale and everything gets a little better. "Just hum and get through the book as quick as you can. Nothing else matters until the end. The very last frame of it, the one before you finally fall asleep, that's what you need. So hurry up." Waking up again and I roll over. "I'll dine on the wine of today until it's fine as hell," I boast. "I might be a banquet of the bitter tidings, served up with the grim water of a wet woodland far to the north of these hills. I might as well be a survivor of threats that have gone unanswered in that sprawl. But I'm still opus, o