He wakes in the morning. He always wakes in the morning. He woke yesterday. He will wake tomorrow. The summer air had bled hot through the open windows and coated him with sweat all the night through. The dark gives no respite from the drenching. The others sleep on. In the silence of the morning he wanders to the computer room. To the book of faces, to the memory hole. There a face that is no longer a face – or that has gained its true face. A new angel in heaven, they say, but for her soul they pray not at all. Rest in peace, some say, praying it even if in praying they know not what they mean. "Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck," he says. And then, because he knows he must "Requiem aeternam dona ea Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ea. Requiescat in pace.." The contrast is not lost on him. The rage and the hate and the helplessness tangle inside him and his heart stumbles over it and, all unchecked, falls into the salt sea, and the sea bleeds from where his face would be, if he had a face. But he has forgotten his. He has forgotten hers, too. He sees her as she was, as he will always see her, as he will always see any of them – as they were in that hazy golden tint of youth, when they woke every day, because they awoke yesterday, so they shall awaken tomorrow. Except her. BANG! BANG BANG! And she will not awaken tomorrow.