I’m beginning to doubt my grip on reality, or reality’s grip on me. Is everything interpretation? Today Bogart seemed to have a sort of folded paper origami in his cramped right hand. I’d never seen it before. I flipped back to yesterday, the day before. There it was. How had I missed it? I kept flipping back through the days, until the folded paper became nothing more than light on his palm. Yet what might have happened next with that origami if I hadn’t looked back?⠀