It’s grown to be the most normal part of the routine: sliding in and out of bed, whether seamless or laboured. What might lay at one’s feet, as we tread with care, tiptoe, one and then the other. Enclosed by steam as the mirror fogs up, my mind races in a stream of inconsistencies: where was my gaze? Did you blink just then? It looked one way, felt another. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, surely they can put it together again? When we had finally unpacked our baggage, the room felt small, cramped even. But you can’t make a home unless you unpack, and it’s always a mess at first, right? I wonder who is doing the dishes tonight. Myth comes to mind, the Greeks of the past and their insight. Dear Sisyphus, did you find meaning in the struggle? Did the struggle fill your heart? Should we think of you as happy? On the other hand the dishes can wait until the morning. We should go to bed. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.