One reaches a certain age; my age, say, and the temporal world begins to shamelessly gang up, to loiter with intent. Anymore the matter-beholden facts and furniture of the world hunch around me like leering dockworkers in possession of Union secrets. The trees and rocks blurt out their permanence as I make my way between them, an evanescent gnat whose crowning glory is self-gnat-awareness. Hand me my scepter. I have cognition, that gift from the glib cosmos, but it’s apparently a gift whose major theme is the unwrapping.