The newspaper forecast has been unusually perceptive this once; Peter Vidal at his acerbic best, nudging, prodding, sandpaper to my skin lest I grow comfortable, lest I readjust as I’m prone to, shaping the contours of my belief to whatever boulder/ impediment/ attitude it must now put up with, snipping away at my soul, adjusting, always giving up, fragmenting. So-- bleary-eyed I read the snippet every morning and get my daily dose of  a scold, and every morning I replace frayed and pale pieces of the self from the day before. And so life goes on.