verything feels like it did when I was writing Broken Window. It feels really good. My life now has returned to that same arrhythmic writing I had before. In Opera, I have tabs opened at all times for the Encyclopedia so that I can write at any given moment. I wished those moments were every day rather than every few days but, well, that’s the arrhythmy.

But I tumble happily through these moments, sifting through the day’s events, words, and silences, looking for that one instance that spreads like cellular automata out of reality and into my odd fantasy. I worry often that there won’t be enough to fill the tank but somehow I manage even when the day was anemic.

Later, I find myself in the study, searching for a single strand lost somewhere in the dust of the floor while more and more of you stand at the door and watch with distant curiosity, occasional amusement, and a tidy constant of disappointment.

Together, we tread autumn water without our shoes.