Fridays you find you’ve been running a marathon and are almost completely out of gas. Nothing is easy, neither breakfast nor love. Snow again in the morning turned to irresolute rain by afternoon. Look at yourself. Look at yourself looking. One must have a mind of winter, Stevens said, though here it is April on a rapidly warming planet. The nothing that is not there and the nothing that is—between these nothings swim the almost empty streets, the shut-up stores, the masked faces. Always somewhere sirens, and we listen, tied to the mast, with nothing to stop our naked ears.