I’m often on the verge of a catastrophic gaffe, super gluing something that isn't broken, jamming the wrong-size diesel nozzle into the tank and wondering why it wouldn’t go. But I catch myself most times.

The satellite TV dish on the roof across the street waits dumbly for a sign from God.

When I work from home I follow tedious and repetitious patterns, to the coffee maker, the microwave, the guitar. The washing machine sometimes. The box cutter to open boxes. A conversation with a cat. Like a mouse on a wheel, or more than a wheel. A wheel and a colored tunnel. It’s a life of delicious misery.