They’re in India in the book I’m reading, the color and chaos. I distracted myself thinking about Indian food, a forkful of rice and curry. How many grains sit uneasily upon the tines? Eighty? A hundred? How many grains are produced for human consumption each year? No, how many have ever been produced, to date in the history of agriculture? To be devoured by rich and poor alike across the globe. It’s in the trillions, right? Hundreds of trillions? Or is that number woefully, naively low? Is it some other order of magnitude? I imagined being punished if I got the answer wrong. All mankind punished because of me.

I awoke haunted by a dream I couldn’t remember. It was too abstract, or it was about something most dreams are not about. But I know it’s there.

The water main break a block away has diverted traffic and caused a jam all down the street. Honks and shouts rang out all day and into the night.