Gray skies, birdsong, white drone of the sound machine. Uncanny Evanston, still morning, still in the morning. We track each other’s movements from room to room, each with our screen. We debate our good neighbor policy. The air, invisible as usual, twists around our building, our town. I leaf through my journal for the past several weeks, finding only the usual complaints. No future reader will find any note there of what was about to happen. And nothing has happened, keeps happening. Walk to the post office, one worker wears gloves, one doesn’t. The randomness of the affections determines everything.