On Tuesday I remember the importance of breathing, of the manner in which air is brought in then expelled. It is important to remember your breathing, not that you are breathing but what your breathing represents. For instance: I was writing a letter, and on the back of the letter I made the sign of the cross with my index finger, tracing the whiteness with my own. This is curious, something about nature, the blind ambition of things, how they are drawn to one another. Shh! The baby is sleeping, this is no small task for the baby, to sleep, and perchance to drool, while sleeping, to be unconscious of the drool, to make no social claims of the drool, this is the original state, to be unaware of the body as a thing alone in the world, to draw no conclusions about anything. The bird that flies by the window is a new thing, a curiosity, lacking a language, yet while one is fully aware of its birdness, its nature is an unknown. It is small against the sun. It has not rained for many days. This is a sign of things to come, one is curious of things to come, like the man in the back row of the theater who shifts blindly in his seat in hope of getting a better view of the action, and yet the theater closed down months ago. No one has had the heart to tell him. “Let him sit” they say, “It is what he was born to do.” And so he sits, waiting for things to come waiting for the things that must come.