Our stories keep re-telling themselves. I find myself done up like a woman in the movies, from days of old, red feather in my hair, walking down the street with a suitcase and a wooden stool. Am I going to start busking? Or should I wander into a bar and find a sympathetic stranger? Only I know which story sticks to me like webbing, which story feels right, like falling into love or a soft bed or both simultaneously.