The feeling is vaguely familiar. What is that? Bile, perhaps. Can't catch a breath. A mouthful of dry-rot. What is that? You look outside. It's early afternoon one minute, late afternoon the next. Coastal summer has set in. Pale gray, the color of nothing. It's the day that never ends. The news from Greece is worse by the hour. And then out of one eye you notice your coat won't get out of the chair and hang itself up. What is that? And then suddenly, the bed has taken you in... Time passes and there's no way to file it.

The next day you hear this, "Is there a reason you don't want to renew your subscription to the New York Times?" You say, "I'm sorry. What was that?" You have not been listening. You've been taking care, shutting things down, but you haven't been paying attention. Still, everything will be fine, you're thinking. But there it is again. What is that? The last time you felt like this would have been.... Yes, it might have been that last year in Morocco. The super marche in Meknes comes to mind. And why that particular place, I couldn't say. Around New Year's Eve, wasn't it? No, it was later, in February. It was snowing in the middle Atlas. And piling up. Whatever year that was. As though the future was falling off the shelves, along with American cereals and Spanish wines. There were questions about muddling through and how that could be done and for what reason and for how long.