An urge to squabble, to win a stale argument, to define “prehistoric”, “pre-literate”, and “genocide”, but not as they are defined in a dictionary on my parents’ bookshelf printed in 1966. First, to un-define them, to say what they are not, that I may climb upon my high white horse.

Muttering to self, laughter that has nothing to do with humour. I notice gestures shifting across my face: frown, sneer, smile that is not a smile.

Why this, now?

Quarter moon still high, a chalk smear on blue.