Of all the things that may or may not be a part of my universe, there are only those which I am consciously aware of that exist. And for me, all that existed for nearly two hours, at the guilty dawn of New Year's Day, was the semi-automatic machine-gun drip from the rotten ceiling to the chafing dish on the warped linoleum floor. But waking in that sonic space, the world slowed; I could see each drop and splash shaking slowly like a delicate kind of flesh, briefly maintaining form before colliding with another surface. And then I could see the roof separating, the molecular bind slipping. The energy used to keep it all together had been battered by the rain for so long that there was nothing left, but for transformation. Chunks of shingled roof and ceiling enamel hit the floor, yet most of it will wind up in the air I'm breathing, I think as I continue to wake up. Will it give me a cough? The sound of the leak stimulated a sudden urge to pee. It forced me to give up the warmth of my bed, knowing each step down the hall and toward the bathroom, in the clammy atmosphere, would erase any chance of going back to sleep.