I'm not really complaining. I'm not. It's just that when your alarm is set for seven, you expect it to go off at seven. The last thing you expect is to awaken with the sun in your eyes because the sun has reached an acute enough angle in the sky to beam its sunny beams directly through that crack in your shades and into your eyes. That's not the rudest awakening I've ever experiened, not by a long shot, but I had a moment of "WHO-WHAT?!" that shot adrenaline into my brain and made me forget all of my dreams. Stupid sunny beams.
Looked at the clock - no numbers. It's the end of time! That is, it was the end of time, until I heard the trucks outside and workmen yelling at each other.

Then I remembered the letter. (whispered echo: "the letter")

Burbank Water and Power sent a letter earlier in the week warning us that the power would be off, but I thought that was for Friday. My gosh . . . the food! I haven't prepared the fridge! Just as I was jumping up, the power came back on; there I stood, in my pajamas, quite rested but unsure what to do next. The urgency to act, as quickly as it came, dissipated into the ether. I shambled to the bathroom.

Waking up at the wrong time, getting your emotions jerked around: These are things that can drive a man mad. Mad, I tell you!