Finding myself in a burrito of cozy blankets, together with a familiar body in the dead of night, I hear the faint horn of a train. "This is the six o'clock train," I think, "that sometimes wakes me, mysteriously, seconds before my alarm clock."<br/><br/>But I must dislodge myself from this blissful cocoon to glimpse the clock and know for certain. I struggle with the idea.<br/><br/>When finally I emerge with a groan of complaint from my nest-mate, I see that it is two-blarging-thirty in the morning and know that this is not the six o'clock train but my<em>very nemesis.</em><br/><br/>And the thoughts that occur to me, in order, as I sit in a desk chair listening to my partner's slumbering sigh go through all the notes of musical scale, are "This could all be happening to Onneca; I should write this down."<br/><br/>Followed by "I am not the one, my dear, who snores like a logging mill gone haywire."