I was alive in the sinking house, noting overlooked placebos, the order of unexcused susceptibles; that I hadn’t been reading as early nor as much as I had been a month ago. So I went and checked out something like six -- plus a VHS of “The Heart is a Lonely Hunter” -- because I had one book here already.

Then I had two days off: the first to acknowledge I was metastasizing into someone with even more useless credibilities in their 27th year; the second, to drive my aunt to the doctor and be paid a visit later by my own father, who made an offering of coffee and Polo Sport.

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