Possible Origin: Saturday, November 7, 1999I don't set an alarm on Saturday. Sleeping-in is a luxury, regardless of how many papers I have to grade. Nothing feels better than lying in a heated cocoon, drowsy, my comforter heavy against my curled body, my back firmly turned against the clock. Instead of waking around ten, I woke at six in the evening without remembering sleep. My room, on the west side of the house, was dark. My slacks, dress shirt, and tie, waiting on the floor to be put away, looked like somebody else's clothing. The room itself was wrong. The dimensions were askew, as if this were an almost exact replica of the place I sleep.
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