These are the four directions of the fence: up, down, right,
wrong, black, white, male, female. Nevertheless, at night the
fence points only toward the future, time’s true north.

I should have worn gloves to the Inauguration Ball, where I
was criticized for my attire—my hair shirt and sandals, helmet
and scabbard.

Paint blistering on the ceiling of the den:
Excuses gathered speed, helping no one.
So I walked up the same mountain as before.