Slowly, surely, and very quietly, the uneasy frazzlement that’s been bubbling, bubbling, toil-and-troubling inside me for the last week or so is making its way out. I have a bruise on my left shoulder from banging into the corner of the marble kitchen counter the other day as I raised myself up from a crouched position. Washing a murderous tart tin this morning, I sliced into my finger; it is the kind of gash where there is a flap. Just hours ago, moving a table, I rammed my hand into the wall. The bruise over the knuckle is pinker and purpler and larger every time I look at it.

I can’t quite put my finger on what’s wrong, but it’s probably best I keep all my digits close to my person anyway until this cloud passes.