We walk around Lake Lyric most days, and today we’ve stepped out early to avoid the summer’s heat. This morning, while we sat on our deck drinking coffee, the weather report crackled on your ancient radio: high temperatures forecast with a possibility of an afternoon thunderstorm.

There is, apparently, a certain psychology attributed to those who collect and hoard. I am not sure if I fit the mould of a subject suffering from early deprivation or having an intense fear of intimacy, but I am a collector. I collect endings. Each one is different in its own singular way. Maybe I even orchestrate them in my life: manipulate break-ups, terminations, conclusions, finales. Such a habit might be symptomatic of a particular disorder, possibly a certain form of masochism.