I spent much of yesterday in a haze. I washed the car of its coat of winter grime in a trance, vaguely surfed the net, flipped through pages of a history book. Later, I went out with my son to the park. Everyone else with children in the vicinity, it seemed, had had the same idea. The sun poked his head out of the clouds for a while, and was actually warm against the skin. Families drifted through the park, their children raced around the climbing frames and swings. And to me, it all seemed utterly unreal, a complete illusion. I had the feeling that, if I could stand in just the correct way, reach out my hand into just the right point in space and time, I could poke a hole through the veil in front of my face and peer into the deep bluey-purple beyond. The only thing that had life and reality was my son and myself.
This is why it is not a good idea to drink until 3 a.m. on a saturday night.