I am reading "An Essay on Waiting" by Andrea Köhler, and in a section called "The Lagoon of Dreams", she writes: 'For Proust "the day unravels what the night has woven; when we wake up in the morning we hold in our hands but a few ... loose strands of the tapestry of lived life, as woven for us by forgetting."'

"Caerus, the lucky moment, presupposes waiting -- the gift of time -- excruciatingly long sometimes, and sometimes blissfully wasted, but always a gift." p. 116.