The floor beneath me begins to feel like part of my body, and my breathing is growing heier, slower. I want to sleep, shut my eyes and lie my head down on this cold, dusty floor. Drift off.

　　When I wake up, maybe I will discover that everything I saw in the hotel bathroom was part of a dream: the water drops dripping from the faucet and landing with a plink into the bloody bathwater; the left arm dangling over the side of the tub, the blood-soaked razor sitting on the toilet tank--the same razor I had shed with the day before--and his eyes, still half open but light less.

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