There he is, asleep again before the sun has even set. The golden light of the sun's last hurrah is creeping in the window behind him, though. It catches on his hair and on the gilt lettering of his book's title. I have to smile. Catullus. I did give it to him, after all, when…
Nostalgia is no good tonight. There are more interesting prospects in evidence.
"Suns may set and rise again: for us, when our brief light has set, there is the sleep of constant night," I quote. Catullus again. And then I go to wake him up.