2 am soft whirring of the ceiling fan only crickets hold the silence at bay in the darkness outside the faint yellow light leaking from the kitchen window. unmindful, night moves toward morning, August toward September, as if busy with other concerns. innocent of remembering, I was tenth out of nine and left to make sense of it all. who knows why I scratch for these moments with no phone ringing and might-have-been friends trading polite but distant words? in the white glow my fingers struggle to reply still tenth out of nine.