Awaken in the morning to the sound of far-off cacophonies and doze while conscious down Amazonian hallways. The vessel is moving on calmly atop the confusion of the river, the fish and the plants, the uneasy sediment and the soft monarchs that sit in thrones in the midst of it all, laughing shakily.

Downstairs now, the rest of the family sleeping soundly.

Pour yourself something to eat, television demons of the pre-dawn consuming your ice ages and your megaliths. The hunters rise and exit stages left and right, mumbling blindly to themselves as they dress to meet the sun. The gatherers are entwined in the task of readying their baskets and afford you little attention.

Before there existed languages or the strange and blundering creatures who would someday speak them, there danced in the centre of an inky well a single faded star. I spun slowly through battles with this star by my side, through mornings hazy, through lust-filled afternoons and hidden evenings. And then one day, the star wrote me a short letter and imploded unceremoniously.

We sleep.

And the world gets a little older.