A few hours of sleep and then he woke from indifferent dreams feeling calm and blank. The heavy feelings he'd gone to sleep with were nowhere to be seen, and so he started searching for them. He began to make out a few threads. He didn't want those feelings to return, but he wanted to orient himself in a more extensive body and selfhood. The feelings, as if roused from their own sleep began to lumber back into formation with a kind of inevitability, as if they were merely part of the lie of the land. Their familiars, the thoughts streamed in to circle about them, stale birds, stuffed birds, frayed and leaking straw. Who could believe in them?