You are starting to understand how it can happen that someone wakes one morning, looks around, decides to start culling things from shelves: duplicates of dented pans, an extra half-dozen plates, winter coats worn the last time, years ago, when snow fell from the sky. What are those glorious holes in the night's tin sheet? After you tire of trying to finish work you've taken home, practice listening to silence settle into the walls, into the furniture, into the floor. Tell your hands to stop wanting to patch or stitch or clean. The eyes of things watch you.
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