In the way that, when you pull at a loose thread sometimes it will drag the rest of the fabric and pull it into little hills and valleys as though it cannot bear to lose that thread, o no, don’t go, please, as though the fabric pulls back like children at the end of a rope in tug of war, feet dug into the dirt but skidding, dragged forward, in the way that a boat makes a wake on the water and the ripples gather closest where the motion slices it open, in the way that in a lamaze class once they played a sort of cresting sound to represent labour pains and the distance between them shrank until I thought you’ve got to be fucking kidding but they weren’t, of course they weren’t, in that way every calamity now comes quick enough that I can hardly catch my breath between them.

I will plant some joys in the furrows.