The coffee is cold. I drink it anyway, because heat is a rumor, and I am a loyal subscriber to the morning news of small mistakes.

The paint is wet on the chair again. I sit in it. I have always sat in it.

Look — there is the crack in the mug I glued back twice. There is the sock that lost its partner in the dark. There is me, waving at a reflection that waves back a half-second too slow.