Morning. It's 7 AM and still dark. The birches outside our bedroom window are leafless, the garden hazel and brown. Our four-month-old just popped his first tooth; our first born will turn four-years-old in a week. We light a fire, snuggle cold toes under warm covers, contemplate TIME and the passage of it. A tooth?! Four years old?! Don't leave this bed, my darlings. Let's live in this bed, a little ship in the darkness, floating to and fro, holding tight and holding light while outside nights turn to day and days to night. And if we grow bored? Or restless? Or long for other company? We'll just gaze into each other's eyes and watch the ghosts go marching through: trumpets and horns, mouths wide with song, limbs doing the fanciest of footwork.