Here I am, alone again, naturally. Well, this is strange. I have been around people nonstop all day long, morning noon and night. And I should think that by now I would be glad to have time to myself, lying here alone in bed in the dark, awaiting the long-coveted sleep. But, I still feel like we're together, Carl, Francois and I. Nothing so adolescent cheesy as like the Three Musketeers, but still something very strong and very special that binds us three together. Well, naturally. This is an artificial environment, why wouldn't we all fuse together and cling to one another? The stories I have heard today, about Francois and his mother, the dark and shocking revelations in Kenny's diary, and all the others. This is such a kaleidoscope of persons and information. but I still know who I am. I still know my name. No longer Cosme. I am, as I have always been, Christopher Edward Jones. Victorian, perhaps Edwardian. How very British Anglican. Rather a quaint sounding set of names. My father's only son. My mother a Mexican, long dead. And now my father, too, is dead. And here I lie alone in the dark. Sarah sang so beautifully today. I hope that she collaborates with Carol...
I don't know if I slept enough. It is 5:52. And the early sun creeps in like streams of molten copper fire. I forgot to close the curtains. As if it matters here. I did sleep well, I think just six hours, but I feel surprisingly rested. And that dream. Ducks. Mallards. Males with their grey and chestnut bodies and iridescent green heads, and the brown mottled females, all trying to organize themselves on black and white linoleum, like a huge chessboard...more than two hours before I have to go on Skype with Erik, and I will see if I can sleep a bit more...
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