My son grins and says the microwave only shows hours and minutes when it’s being a clock but does seconds when it’s cooking so when it appears to be a clock I know it’s still counting them, it just keeps them in its head until it’s time to tell us. Now is a new minute. Inside, outside, it all makes sense. I am not sure about the counting but I am sure that everything has personality if not a soul, whatever that is, and I will be OK with the singularity for that reason. I reach in for the boiling water to make the tea and a pool gathers next to the mug, impossible to tell yet whether the flaw is in my pour and haste or a crack in the ceramic giving way in this moment. Now, why not now? Everything crumbles on its own schedule, not yours.