I said things to myself like, “Stop looking for things to be sad about, that’s not what it actually is anymore,” and of course I was right, that’s not exactly it. There is nothing sad anymore, there are only tiny and tart truths. I saw that I was wise to instruct myself in this way. So I said, “And furthermore, start looking for eggs.” I did. I found myself some eggs, and tender butter-leaf lettuce and a prissy endive and some jokey Kirby cucumbers and some standard butter and a new giant olive oil because I was anticipating filling my mouth with salty, lemony, glistening leaves.
