In the morning, when you're only half awake, and your fist won't even give itself the power to clench. This is your heart. Lost, adrift, all those awful seafaring words: useless because you're stuck plainly to land. No soaring, no gliding, no wind through your hair, just the lurching casino clatter of one hope falling, landing, falling. And what's left is that strange moan coming from your throat that means nothing like anything else in this world.