Begin again the reassembling of the routine that was blown away and atomized out of memory by the bipolar. What did I used to like? Working back into the desire for something real tends to open up the memory bank, and out tumbles something painful. I just wanted routine but I got memories of old routines from better times. All old times seem like better times. Remember.

From its parts try to make a whole that works. The kludged robot shudders and stumbles around and you’re proud of the little mechanism, and a little sad for it too. Watch it work its way across the carpet, the whole world. You never thought of the walls in quite this way. It’s going to hit one and fall over. The effort of walking all the way over there again to pick it up. Which direction to point it in next? In your hand its legs are still moving, and you’re faintly put off. Like an insect rowing the air.

Put it down and aim it at something for god’s sake.