My children of the flesh sleep; they have gathered in the bed since 4, and so soon one will wake and then the other, as they are in each other’s orbits just now.
But for me there is little sleep. Other children, or so they are called, roam, thrice-disturbed. My archangel invites them. Avalon’s rabbi invites them. Dominic’s actress distracts him.
I have the same complaint as ever: their incoherent noise fills my ears so I cannot hear. It drives me mad; sounds to shatter glass, the glass my own thoughts. Who can think with such cacophony? I cannot, nor sleep. Even to type this is like preserving a tune in the midst of an accident, the metal shrieking against stone.
The last betrayals weigh on me for the freshness of their kind. I had never experienced people to whom their word meant so little. Not merely in the leaving, but the manner of it: twice, with no warning nor discussion nor any regard for words given. This surprised me but perhaps it explains why they could not understand much, such as my word given so long ago: to not turn this cacophony to song.