If only we could sleep, really sleep, W. says. If only we could rest.
W. dreams of the profound slumber from which we would rise reborn, ready for the morning, ready for work. He dreams of the great day that would follow our night of rest, and of the great ideas that would flash above us like diurnal stars.
How is it still alive in him, the belief that he might wake into genius, W. says. How is it that he still believes, despite everything, that he is a man of thought?
If he were just to work hard enough, W. tells himself. If he were just to wake early enough, study enough and read enough … What, what then?
Thought might be possible, W. says. He might be able to overcome his idiocy.
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