The old poet awoke, adjusted the pillow, and sat up in bed with his back against the wall. Wryly he thought, ‘another day.’ After a moment gathering his thoughts he willed himself to get up. He shuffled along the dark corridor (the day hadn’t broken yet), prepared the percolator on the stove and stoked the fire. Then (as always) he sat at his desk and prepared his materials for the day’s work.