First the windows gray, then go black again, but gray is on the way. Williams lights up and says, It’s on the way, but I can’t hear him over the overhead cranes. I don’t look up because up is not sunlight breaking above the eastern hills or even rain clouds meant to cool our fevers or telephone wires clogged with bad news. Up is the flat steel ceiling from midnight till now.                         * 8 a.m. and we punch out and leave the place to our betters, the day-shift jokers who think they’re in for fun. It’s still Monday 2,000 miles…