On TV, a girl on a talk show has sailed solo around the world. I wonder what it would be like to sail to Spain, win the Archibald Prize, write a novel that’s half good. In the meantime, life is broken into fifteen minute segments— an assignment marked, a stir fry diced, a basket of laundry folded, a short story read from the book by the bed. Enough bits like that make up a day that can be crossed off, so one runs into another. It’s an achievement of sorts. I liked it better when the light in the bathroom was softer, more forgiving. Middle age is unquestionably upon you, the expert in today’s paper said, when one day the image in the mirror is quite foreign. Watch for the jolt, he said, the reaction to the slip of youth, the futile hope, the wish still to run headlong before it’s too late into the remarkable.