J'ai cru que je n'allais pas y arriver.
Something to do with sleeping inside but looking awake, apart from the massively puffy eyes. Something to do with no muscle tone and being skeptical about psychosomatic signs and sweet potatoes and the cold cold cold cold cold silence. It felt so much like grieving, without anybody dying as far as I know, that I started crying for the mother I had lost, crying for anything that could switch that fatigue into something less real.
But then the day did end.
And I did smile when we drove to someone's house made of ageless wood, ageless dogs and cats everywhere, ageless sweet faces for the few minutes between the last seconds if the afternoon and the first soft breaths of the evening. Not before then did my eye look at anything, not before then did I speak.
I love the night so much, because in the end, it never lets you down.