The wind batters the upper story of my house. I no longer pretend that sleep nears. With the low light of the desk lamp casting soft shadows around me, I stare through the gap between the broken slats of the wooden blind in the north window. I have entwined a small brown blanket with the dangling strings. I cannot see outside but I can hear the roar of nature.
Now the urgent panicked call of a siren rises in the folds of the buffeting air. I pace through the room, ghostly images emerging from the noise which penetrates my sanctuary. Faces surround me, blurry, drifting, receding.
In six days, I will again stand on the edge of the world. I will raise my arms and let the sea soothe me. But tonight the fierceness of an early spring leaves me restless and worried.
I did not stretch today. I rose early and settled the cloak of duty on my unloosened limbs. I stumbled through the hours, detached and unaware. In return sleep makes no pretense of its disdain. It is nearly the nineteenth day of the twenty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. I wait; and while I wait, the city flees the merciless wind, with roaring motors, and bleating horns. Above the street, the hour seems suspended; tomorrow cowers beyond the forbidding night. But I know with some deep certainty, that life continues.
This entry is for you, Mr. Senter.