Fog. The air is sodden, and ponderously still. Against the milky sky, the houses look like they've been cut out of cardboard. Somewhere, in the silence, a jay is screaming.

I'm feeling sad . . . the sadness of the world, dusting its wings. Lost children and melting glaciers. Truth and poison.

The rooms in this house are scattered with people I love. The vases overflow with sunflowers. My fortunes weigh upon me. I should never complain about anything.

Outside, somewhere, that jay is still screaming. Shriek. Pause. Shriek. Pause. His throat-song is harsh and relentless.