Everything seems to be happening around me & not to me. Which isn't true, really: more honestly the wedding patina just colours everything. Kind of hard to come up with entries to trump that. I mean, the currents of this diary will eventually assert themselves (not unchanged). Jenny will ask me in the morning what was the matter last night & I'll recall dark figures standing over me. Supreme acts of will as I overcome the paralysis of fear, clawing at their throat. She'll say I probably stopped breathing, & I'll wonder whose hands were at whose throat. Dark figures standing over the bed can be me or someone like me. You know? The water is still dark but she has built a bridge over it. The heat doesn't help the torment of sleep; always floating on the surface like mosquito larvae, a larvae of any kind, a ghost in a mask.