Do you remember how we returned each day, deflated, scattering our clothes about the room, anchoring our shoes by the bed, and how we lay breathless by the window, open to the lake? How the wind would enter, tentatively at first, its soft paws touching us, curious, receding, then throwing open the curtains, filling the room, inviting us out to sail the worlds we charted separately, in the estuaries of the night? Do you remember how we then woke in the grey, embryonic light? How we dressed, rehearsing for another day, hopeful?