On my way upstairs to bed I stopped to sit

on the spiral staircase and reflect, reflect, until the mildness

of my thoughts lulled and calmed me; and then from

downstairs I heard music. It was my brother, Avram playing.

I was lost, so to speak, in the milky way.

Only within. Inside the brain. An indescribable impression. All my

senses wanted to sink into slumber. And when the last

day comes, I am sure — by ice or fire — he’ll

be down there playing away došanbe, sešanbe, cahâršanbe, he doesn’t

stop. That’s how we say Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday in Farsi.

____________________________________________________

Paraphrases from “The Workers All Call Daddy Cap’n” by Josh Short,
Cosima Wagner’s Diaries, Ulysses by James Joyce, “An Unstamped Letter in Our Rural Letter Box’ by Robert Frost, “Going to Sleep” by Hermann Hesse, and Paradise Lost by Clifford Odets.

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