Have you ever felt so overwhelmingly sleepy or tired that your eyes glaze over words, blur them into continuous sentences; your body refuses to move even when your mind knows and understands inertia; speaking is a chore, a great skill, an eloquence that might, just might, return after rest? Yet Dostoevsky remains before you as ever before, the page ears outline numerous bent-into triangles and Marmeladov says drunkenly and despairingly, "And what if there is no one else, if there is nowhere else to go! It is necessary that every man have at least somewhere to go. For there are times when one absolutely must go at least somewhere!" and there is a prostitute with a pure soul who falls in love and devotion with a tormented murderer.

Life, all of life, in a jumble of words.