It had come to this: a life lived in thirds. Eight hours of sleep was broken by the shrill of his alarm clock. Eight hours of work ensued, no more interesting than the day-time TV it allowed him to avoid. And eight listless hours in a single room, containing a mattress, a table a stove and a torn photograph of a woman he didn't know. He's found the photograph one Monday morning in a Winter too mild to truthfully bare the name. She had stared up at him from a puddle at the bus stop, eyes that drew him in to the extent that he missed his ride. As he lifted the sodden paper it tore under the weight of absorbed water and to save the rest of her, he placed her between two sheets of draft report he'd taken home to read the Friday before. She had dried off and now lived on the grey wall, the only