HOW THE FISH SURVIVE The light that entered the room felt cold and blue, colored by shadows on the windows. This window faces south, so the light passes in slowly and at first, I can ignore it, but in the end, I have to open my eyes to this underwater light and take a deep breath. I often wake up that early. There are days when I go out to watch the dawn, warm my hands with a cup of herbal tea. The world is quiet, but not quiet. I admire people moving on the street, starting early. We have something in common, they and I both know the first feeling of the day's light on the mountains and hitting our faces. We have carried that feeling with us throughout the day, like a token.

But I haven't seen them, men of the sun, for months now. I peel back the sheets and stare at the ceiling fan, motionless and stagnant. The air was heavy and empty at the same time. Perhaps, I think, it is an emptiness that has the weight. I pulled the sheets up to my chin, shivering as they slid across my body.

I can't decide whether I'm warm or cold, in limbo. I used to do those things and more in just one day, I suppose, even though that seemed so long ago. It was then, and now is now, and before I could do all that, I had to get out of bed first.