Jim is well aware that in the morning he’ll have to wake again to the grinding gears of his life, that empty, desultory feeling that leaves him in a state of imbalance and incoherence. For him sleep is a futile halftime. Morning never fails to amaze him with its charm or lack thereof. His feet feel like welded trivets as he slogs his path to the bathroom. They meet the cold tile like unwanted guests at a housewarming nobody wanted on a street where they never wanted to live. There is a painting of a boat in the bathroom. It was left there by the previous owner. Jim hates it but never took it down. He’ll tell you why if you ask him but my advice is not to. And if you do you can always say I warned you no to. So don’t, OK?When Jim wakes up his hands are numb and tingly. This has been an ongoing problem lately and concerns him but not enough to consult a doctor. He hears the kids next door laughing as they play on their backyard swing set, their hair glinting in the morning sun, their laughter sounding like it’s directed at him as if they’re sharing some private derisive joke.