Woke up in the middle of the night, abruptly, snapped to conscience as if thrusted back into the confinement of three dimensions by violent momentum of a screeching halt, a result of a mechanical default maybe, say a weight on conscience from the daytime, inconspicuously but sinisterly lodged in the corner of mind and not properly identified and dealt with before the tram of sleep took the descent into the realm of dream on the track of time. In the penumbra state of conscience it took some finesse and a couple of tries to hitch myself back onto the continuum of time-and-space, like attempting to jump back onto a moving train before recovering the balance from the fall. First to trace the peripherals of the body with the mind, and when succeeded proceeded to carve it out from the rest of the nebulous heat of the night, delineate a safe harbor in the perilous undercurrent of inky air for memory to moor — Presently I Remembered it is time to take Maomao’s temperature again.
Wang Maomao 