Knife rolls a smoke, his fingers seeing without need of light. Knowing the feel of crushed dry leaves and paper fine and thin as ballerina tulle.

He is blind. His vision burned out forever by an iron pipe heated to a glowing yellow-red that even he would love to see again.

It is night because Sydney is away and it is cold. When she is away and there is some warmth within the room he knows that it is daylight. Morning by the slant of silent sun that fingers its way above the sidewalk and below the drawn-down shade of safety on the single window to stripe a fingerprint along the blade-sharp line lof his jaw.