There was an unbearable buzzing in my eyes. My hand struck, time and again, but its aim was off. Ear, nose, mouth - mercilessly it attacked them all. I turned away, turned back again. No way. This was murder. Finally I opened my eyes and located the damned fly. Fat and black it on the white coverlet. I took proper aim, then got up to wash my hands, taking care not to look in the mirror. I went to the kitchen, put some water on, looked for fresh filters. Before long this activity produced a cup of steaming hot coffee. It was August eleventh, nineteen eighty-three. My birthday.