Much later, again. Dim light narrow rooms and a weird detached feeling looking at the notes collected ever since sunrise, the actual ones and the mental ones one wished to have put down, one knows to be faded a few hours from now. Still resisting sleep but slowly failing. A weird kind of intermediate reality, like the words the plot the stories unfolding between the lines of a book. An unwritten novel made of leftovers. And a hero living a life in arcane footnotes. Another dark hour. Music from a random past. A familiar voice. And a handful of stardust. Have a peaceful night wherever you are.