In the morning, we work, W. before dawn – in the hours before dawn, when the world is quiet – and I after dawn, as the world wakes up. We work – W. reads, and sometimes he writes, and I look blankly out at the window, sometimes jotting down a few notes or so – in a kind of innocence, a forgetting.
For hadn't our work, the day before, left us as failures? Hadn't we failed our task yet again, and anew? Isn't that all the succession of days means to us: failure again and anew; fresh failure, different varieities of failure, but each time failure nonetheless?
But there is our innocence, our holy forgetting. There is the new morning, and the confidence of the new morning. So we can forget, and thereby get to work. In innocence, we begin to work – or what we call work. We work, Sisyphuses who have forgotten they are Sisyphuses, and our day is always the same day, the same mockery of the day, and the same despoiling of our innocence and forgettting.
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