I am living in parts this week: constantly aware of the breath I take and mostly unsure which meal I miss. Words – my most intimate ally – desert me when I need them most on my tongue or fingertips. Everything I know doesn’t seem so intimate again. Suddenly, I feel like a reincarnated child who doesn’t know how to be a child any longer. Life is an intimate strangeness. But unlike that child, I’m incurious: a dog’s bark and a car horn hold the same blandness. The night is a temporal repose – the dot between the end and beginning of sameness. Period. Life this week is a little dying. And as I write this, it’s past the third day.