In the hour before the one when it’s thought normal not to be asleep, I’m under a cool, smooth sheet, the ceiling fan helping with the illusion that I’m somewhere and sometime other, or nowhere in particular. I’m listening to birdsong new to me beyond my brightening window. Something like bluebird scat, but with too much Bach. And I’m thinking I’m okay with the unease I can’t shake. Better that than whatever gene I’m missing that unfolds into the superpower of effortless belief in the unbelievable. Now for coffee.