Not surprisingly the descending stair case actually was heading up. For years he had sat by the river hoping to write himself into a book; this caused him great anguish and he cried himself to sleep in a waterless bed of smooth rock. Morning came from the smell of something faintly aromatic about the night. One wasn’t suggestive of the other yet he could’ve sworn that something like twenty of each had passed. Being caught unawares was not unlike waking from a dream having lost something you never really had before you went to sleep, curling around the pillow he swore that the face he was kissing was made of more than just feathers and strand. This much is known for certain when the pillow was ripped open with a knife.