He recognized the alarm had not rung, so it must be late, it must be Sunday.  He looked directly up at the ceiling.  No spiders in the corner, though a web was left behind.  He slowly rolled his eyes as far down as he could to look past his feet to the open window that looked out into the sky.  He watched, and saw no birds fly by, a time perhaps for a hiatus from their early morning flurry.  Without moving his head, he rolled his eyes to the extreme right to take in the only painting his father had ever painted, waiting till he was 85.  He felt the usual sharp twinge just under the eye upon taking in the shocking range of color put into the painting of a desert landscape.  He now rolled his eyes over to the extreme left, to the four pairs of toddler shoes his mother had had framed for him when he was not yet an adolescent, whose glass he had long imagined to one day shatter so that his own children could walk in his shoes.  He looked away, rolling his eyes back across the ceiling to the blades of the low hanging fan over him, and then stopping there, closed his eyes to take just one quick look inside himself for the old and familiar image of his long dead dog wagging an open-mouthed hello.  Seeing that, it was then easy to jump off the bed, into his day off, not alone.