The first week after springing forward in time always leaves me feeling disoriented. I’m not tired when I should be, I’m tired when I shouldn’t be, the sensation that things are always sliding just out of my reach prickles at my skin. Mornings dawn dark and lonely instead of cheerful and promising. My mind, unsettled, spills its contents into the nighttime air. Snatches of song, pieces of lists, images and memories swirl around my fitful body as I try to grasp each one and put it to rest. But they elude my sleepy fingers, seeking refuge in the inky corners of my room, only to return again once the moon has risen. I think perhaps my terrier feels this slipping sensation that I feel, but when I ask him he only licks my face and wags his tail.