It's funny how sometimes no matter how positively spiffy your life appears to be, you begin to take notice of those little cracks on the wall, the minute specks of peeling paint, the slight rusting at the edge of your roof.

    You've just bought that adorable furniture you've always wanted and everything seems to be running as it should be: house by the seaside, seabreeze strategically blowing through your porch, your new couch facing the tv at your optimal viewing distance, well-stocked fridge, a PC completely attuned to your working habits, satisfactory intellectual life, your books stacked on the desk just so. Even your parents have come to accept the occasional odd pink flamingos and white elephants standing in front of your yard. And they have yet to express their objections regarding the uselessness of that bulky brain model sitting in the darkness of your garage.

    But. But. Spiffy or not, you take the little cracks, the specks, and the slight rust as signs of an oncoming wrong. You think, sadness doesn't come in bursts and in explosions. It builds slowly like a wave. It always starts at the center, a small ebb in the flow. It's only when the wave crashes at the walls of your house that you grasp its name.