All false infinities are hell. It rained last night, or this morning. It’s raining now. Yesterday afternoon I wanted to leave everything I brought with me in the car. My phone, my jacket, and almost my suitcase. I had already left my keys plugged into the computer in my brother’s office. I think that I have never read anything, never in my life picked up a single book, and then I see an image that reminds me of an image from a chapter in Sebald’s Vertigo. A porcelain hand that Stendhal kept on his desk, a hand which would often move him to tears. Then I think, “I knew about this resonance when I took the photo.” (Of my own hand.) In the past year or so, hands have meant a lot to me—as entrances, as indications, to call to the core of another’s being. (“My mother always said that someone would love me for my hands.)

In the morning I try to remember my dream. It’s a form of devotion, to not forget the person you were in the night. In my dream I was trying to put something back together. It was broken and the person who had broken it had decided she wasn’t going to tell me about it. There were five or six people sitting on two couches. I recognize the couches but not necessarily the people. The couches are from one of two homes: a springtime cabin somewhere remote, or a house in Forest Hill. But when I got up to turn off my alarm this morning the halo of the screen stuck in me: a notification from a friend. That was all I could remember. I went to bed and thought about what the notification meant. Then I remembered that I should try to remember my dream, as a form of attention and devotion. Now I’m sitting at my computer, noticing how much my bedroom is slanted back from the window: as I type my chair starts to roll backwards. Until I am far from my desk. How did I never notice this before? I noticed, but maybe I was not paying attention. Only incrementally did I become aware.

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