(no subject)

As soon as he got up to his room he fell asleep, and there were nightmares, so he spent the night sitting in the bathroom with the lights on, reading Walt Whitman. When dawn came he fell into bed and slept hard.

Now, in the waning afternoon light, he takes stock of his surroundings. There are his chairs, and the end table. The books have been moved -- by him, he thinks; it's been many years (for him, anyway) and he can't remember all the details -- but other than that it's just the same. Not home -- he won't let himself think of it that way yet -- but it's his.

And he nods. It'll do.