That night he died again. Oh, he could rest assure that the morning would resuscitate him, but the pages on his desk were empty still and the fingers proclaimed to writing were occupied fiddling with a broken guitar string. His feet walking the neighbourhood neither produced many words nor did calculating the time ought to be spent effectively. He punched a class picture. In the last few days it had gotten easier to ignore the empty pages. The task was overdue, he was done discussing discipline, order of priority and so forth. Pajamas on, lying - waiting - for a morning that, in a few days, will come