We seem to move so slowly, as if the air, exhausted of freshness, had sunk upon us in thick folds, and we -- no longer dancers -- had spent our lives in heavy gesture through its invisible passivity. Now we slump, somnolent, enveloped in custom and liturgy. Our hands twitch, outside our awareness, reflexive, unreaching. Numb. Echoes of others' conversations seep around us, weightless whispers ebbing words from indifferent walls, disjointed as dreams, below earshot, devoid of interest, even when first spoken. Trivial. And we sleep, or not, and do not know sleeping from waking, lips mumbling to laps -- what, we have forgotten -- cool love, or prayers.