The what-ifs become the what-nows. Pattering about looking for things to tinker with. Sore legs from moving bookshelves. Got rid of a few books too. Then this morning my mother gives me my copies of Charles Dickens and the Taber Medical dictionary. I don't know what they were doing at my mom's house. 

Turning about in my mind is a serious question. Should I stop trying to fix things? I would certainly appear more amenable to those that value such things. I'd feel much less engaged, surely, and probably speak a great deal less. There are other worlds in which I could slowly immerse myself, like a very hot bath, and enjoy my spark of warmth in an otherwise icy world.

Until I get bored.