A man coughs like a box and turns on yellow light to follow his bladder out over the gunwale of his bed. He yawns upright trying not to dot the floor with little advance pees. The clock on the night-stand biting off an hour he hates. Sugar, the sick caterer managed with unzipping needles. Blood syrop, shortener of legs, ichor of the bishop whose name is on a school because he could not beget. Like many milk-blind scholars and farmers short of breath above billions in sweet graves.