Laura closes her eyes as she lays on her friend's studio futon, she can hear her friend speak to her in her viola voice
and the clock bought in Bern with its ridiculous tick-tocking nailed with a tack to the wall; every moment you are
closer, it says. Laura will not open her eyes, she will not look. She will not go any closer. A hard hand on her
naked arm, the feeling of wood or of mud or of a scratchy hard surface, and then sinking, falling, letting it happen,
and all the time in darkness behind closed eyes. This time she will not do it. She will not go any closer.
Lorelei, Laura's friend sing-songs in her viola voice --
-- Laura, Laura! through cupped hands reaching up to the
scratchy surface --