I’d forgotten the hammock in our living room—put it up and float with windows on three sides and the gentle insistent march of the Große Fuge from the fourth, very nearly at peace, or rather with the anxiety guided along the splintering lines of melody, the procession from a young man’s vigor to an old man’s noble wrath in the face of deafness, indifference, and betrayal. I am lifted, succored, removed, and for once alone while wife and daughter go to Target. Yesterday we sketched each other, reducing ourselves: I’m a beard, a T-shirt, a pair of glasses without eyes.