Too Clear, Too Clean. The Problem Was

Some Mornings... I Sit At The Kitchen Table Shaking Salt Into The Hairs On My Arm, And A Feeling Shoves Up In Me: It's Finished. Everything Went Past Without Me.

Kissing Mother Superior, Incompetent, Hairball, Poppy Seeds, On The Can.

The Pause Makes You Think The Song Will End. And Then The Song Isn't Really Over, So You're Relieved. But Then The Song Does Actually End, Because Every Song Ends, Obviously, And That. Time. The. End. Is. For. Real.

I Felt No Shame In These Activities, Because I Understood What Almost No One Else Seemed To Grasp: That There Was Only An Infinitesimal Difference, A Difference So Small That It Barely Existed Except As A Figment Of The Human Imagination, Between Working In A Tall Green Glass Building On Park Avenue And Collecting Litter In A Park. In Fact, There May Have Been No Difference At All.

I'm Always Happy," Sasha Said. "sometimes I Just Forget.