Faun

Lesser Ury, Hochbahnhof Bülowstraße, 1922 Below is a brief prose fragment from a story I conceived this summer.  He woke up and sat up in bed. His pulse was racing, throbbing in his ears like drumbeats. For a moment, he just sat there, clutching the blanket and staring ahead. He did nothing but try to calm his breathing. The shadows behind the blinds from the tree branches outside. He didn't really know who he was. But eventually, he rose heavily and looked at the alarm clock. Half past two. He swore. He knew exactly who he was. As often happens when he woke up this way, he became wide awake. He put on his bathrobe and sat down at the computer. Sometimes, reading something on the Internet helped. But his heart continued to pound hard, and the computer's blue light gave him a headache. The Swedish-Danish wars in the 15th century and the bark beetles' spread in northern Uppland didn't help either, so he pulled up the blinds. It was still dark outside the window. The light