You might say it was a series of stuffy little scenes jammed end to end, the system engaged without strain or slack, bearing the bearable until the morning's restored stock of fuel was used up and you came down to the shaggy ends at the bottom of the woodbox, ordinary to the point of extinction, just what the city person flees from into enjoyment or entertainment, some vicarious open already closed on repetition, future funneled frictionlessly into past, just more of the same. But whatever you say about it was not the way it was experienced, nothing ever happens to you, it happens in you, which is why you never feel any separation or any surprise. This is what's so dream-like about waking life, that it's your life is just a figure of speech, in one of those eternally stuttering attempts at explanation that never get anywhere being just the dancing reflection of the ripples mistaken for the effects of a cause.