The table changes in small increments, with the arrangement of items slightly different each day. Something new appears. Something else is gone. Something else is moved slightly. The clutter may seem a consistent, gathering phenomenon, but it has its ebbs and flows. Tonight, the brown bag dominates the scene – a tilted boulder perched on a thin strip of rolling black sand. The plastic bags have long gone. The hydrangeas are wilted and disconsolate. There are no distant prospects and no imagination of escape. No satisfaction can be taken in any of this. There is no consolation in detecting the hidden machinations of the mundane. My life is fading away – not yet, but soon enough. I cannot help smiling again in the midst of this obscure scene – caught up in this obscurity, finding in it a truth that truth cannot comprehend. I find myself whispering over and over, “she does not love me, she will never love me”.

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