Nighttime

I can't sleep. I can't sleep. So I get up but I'm not dressed and it's cold. I start shivering. The house, dark and silent, surrounds me with well-known obstacles. A darker inkblot on Bondi's couch signals that Grumpy is curled up for the night. Somewhere in the living room, a miniature Darth Vader and a fat Skywalker have signed a temporary truce and lie peacefully in a heap of paws and whiskers. The Christmas tree stands up straight and proud in the darkness but nothing shimmers, twinkles, nor sparkles.

I sit on the couch, hugging my knees, trying to stay warm.

Somewhere in a little town of France, a rooster is calling out the first daylight. The baker's street is already fragrant. A man is rolling up the steel shutters of the Café de la Place, and it smells like fresh coffee and croissants.

Somewhere in Asia, an overcrowded city drenched in sunshine is bustling with activity.

Not sleeping isn't half bad. I wish I could stop thinking. The mind is stripped of all pretences and illusions at this hour. It is deadly sharp and clear. But it talks only of failures and shortcomings.

Outside, a thin snow is falling and has finally whitened my world.

Later on, I dream of a friendly Jeff Probst and a game of Survivor. Our boat leaves with the ladder still trailing in the water. "They don't know any better and they're not strong enough to lift it," I think. "I'll do it."