It begins at 2 a.m., the world still spawning slate, nocturnal paws crick-cracking bush twigs outside the black window. Apples asleep inside their trees; cows still barned. Bees waxing in hives. He raises his body, contemplates its seven complaints. In his small cell. Does he admit the concept: the cell’s darkened window? Or does his pride swell in such penance? If so, he must contemplate the bare floor. Snapping sounds. Contemplate the truth of this untimely hour. Socks like felted mats. He must pray. To his mother in Laval-des-Rapides, he bows his head. To his father underground, he dispenses his thoughts. To Thomas Merton, he cites each authentic word. He blows on his hands. He strives for bios aggelikos, but he is one monk among two hundred. Mistaken prayer, he cannot sheer himself from this life.