Things just come to be as they are. A moment’s indiscretion, the mindlessness of a hand putting one book down because it doesn’t know where else to put it at the time; the passing misgivings of old ideas, old lovers, who knows. Old gifts, old returns. They just pile up that way. When, later on, one notices the shells of emptied sunflower seeds in a tiny little pile of spilling (a mouse), one notices only then that the mind just isn’t that careless after all. In fact, it almost looks staged, as though items had been moved into place—like movie props, to create a valid scene or two. A statement of sorts: Annie Leibovitz. Vivian Maier. Paul Cezanne. Really quite stunning, quite a triad. But it isn’t like that. Things just happen that way, and one day they become noticed. A mouse enters the picture and changes everything. Only then.