Yet remain partial to an arcane penitential sequence? Absent chickadees, I am mostly comfortless, yet absent comfort, I am nestled in familiar psychological strategies, including the one that is always on the lookout for chickadees. The floor creaks when she goes to the bathroom, the bed creaks when she pulls off her shirt. Before there was speech there was sound. But what was before we were angels?
Well, history overwhelms us, especially those enthralled with a certain crucifixion, a certain metaphorical garden, and a certain ideal Bo tree. The art of Leonardo da Vinci was premised on many fine layers, no one of which could function without the others. Why say yes when no produces an identical result? I get only so far with the laundry before finding myself lost in swirling sunlit dust motes, folding and refolding a shirt I will never wear again.