Warm blankets shield the light. You slump, tipping backwards on the ottoman, suddenly tired. This is no issue, you are not to blame for how the air changes your state. The ottoman is large, round, and softly worn. The cowskin reaches up to slow the fall, reaches to meet your ribs beneath your skin and the skull beneath your scalp. The light shines against the delicate skin of your eyelids. The warm glow presses up against the back of your retinas, claustrophobic, all encompassing perhaps. There is no danger here, Janine’s small pink nose brushes your forehead, kissing you gently; the tea is left unbrewed and the biscuits wrapped up in wax fabric, there is no rush to wake or leave. I have a book I would like to read if you would like to sleep.