Because this is not who you are, really, pale-faced and purposeless, wandering the tiny acreage of your living room like a calf strayed too far from the fold and finding itself in the dregs of the field, where the spring mud clings and cloys. No, you are not that animal, not that field, not that edge, not that muck. Still, you peruse the catalogue of these familiars – narratives that make you feel less beautiful, the drawing and quartering of that which failed to live up to your best expectations, the ill-fitting memories from your childhood which, despite your efforts to render them whimsical testaments of your innocence and haplessness, nevertheless have clothed you with embarrassment that’s lasted for years. There is a trophy wall of catastrophe and collision you could knock your head against daily if you wish. Don’t worry. This is your natural state, which is to say you are living between these three stories: What was, and what is, and all that you carry – fervently, wildly, unstoppably – in your bones, the great carnival ride of the who knows what. Here you are. A liminal moonscape, a rope bridge of thick, unintelligible leaves, a foreign country where you can’t decipher the train schedule and where the menu has devolved into a toothy collection of consonants. It will be alright. You will find your way. The map is in your back pocket, where it’s always been.