Playing this continuous improvisation, by pretending this narrow bed is a raft or the churn of white noise is the humming of an airplane, the sky a blanket. I’m a lousy actor. Nobody is persuaded or moved, while the photos trip off the walls, cracked glass, humans who appear not to be thrown into such a performance. A million fragments of my face, lacking the wherewithal to harmonize. They twist and fall like the swifts, looking for a narrow chimney in which to stuff themselves. If only it were a game. Instead, melodrama is the only way to believe this bed is a raft.