He woke and wrote what he could remember. He never dreamed when he slept here. Now he wanted to dream more. He felt aggrieved somehow and tore the paper from the typewriter without looking at the black marks. Her eyes were sky blue. He kissed her ears everywhere, one then the other. There were words for sounds he never heard himself play before. It was some time since he played clarinet. How could he pick it up and play like that now composing on the pulse of an hour? Much simpler to keep dreaming.