I construct a modest vision involving rain, birdsong, and a warm cup of tea held with philosophical sincerity. The rain arrives first, though before it can settle into anything dependable, it peters out with visible uncertainty. The birds attempt a contribution of their own, quickly overpowered by the metallic declarations of nearby construction machinery. A relationship: desires fulfilled comprehensively, though assembled according to an unfamiliar blueprint. “It happened, didn’t it,” she says. I sit there in a wet shirt beside a cold cup of tea, a pale layer of cream having established itself across the surface with quiet permanence, while the original sequence dissolves into a damp and acoustically compromised arrangement of almost accurate outcomes.

— Thuds of the emotionally concussed

I catalogue a number of fears with quiet consistency. “Why,” she asks, “there is nothing to be afraid of.” The proposal of a trip is introduced as a reasonable extension of this confidence. “No,” she says, the matter adjusting itself. A relationship: courage issued in principle, revoked in practice. The journey, having briefly taken form, slips through my hands like sand, each grain maintaining its own quiet departure, leaving behind the outline of something that had almost agreed to exist.

— Thuds of the emotionally concussed

I hunt for the frame; the world withholds its better angles with some discipline. The light arrives without prior agreement, strikes the glass, and the composition assembles itself with quiet authority. I stand there, slightly late to the event, observing what appears to have completed itself. A relationship: a rare alignment of chaos and intent, presented as though it had been planned. “Did you get it,” she asks. I hold the image briefly; the perfection appears to have been issued on a temporary basis.

— Thuds of the emotionally concussed

A red stream of light forces its way into the room. It settles against the wall with a certain insistence. I look at it, then at the surrounding darkness, both holding their positions without negotiation. A relationship: contemplation permitted briefly, then reassigned without notice. “Make the morning tea,” he calls. All philosophies, having made a brief and largely ceremonial appearance, excuse themselves; the kettle proceeds to establish a far more practical order.

— Thuds of the emotionally concussed

I proceed with an intention that feels sufficiently clear. The outcome arrives in a form I do not even remotely expect. The intervening steps appear to have been reassigned. A relationship: an order is placed; instead of an expensive book, a set of boxers arrive, the bill showing quiet conviction. “Weren’t you expecting this,” she asks, or tells. I consent to the result as presented; the original intention appears to have been quietly slaughtered.

—  Thuds of the emotionally concussed

The day resembles every other mundane day. The calendar insists otherwise. “Are you not celebrating?” she asks. A relationship: certain days are elevated without discussion, and one learns to comply with the height. A sugar bomb cake is arranged; it keeps me buzzed, like a bee, an expression faintly resembling a smile. The occasion gathers a sense of importance, loosely stitched to the cost incurred.

—  Thuds of the emotionally concussed

In my life, sequence feels like an adopted habit. We were speaking about life, then art, then something slipped. “The salt in the Gobi was a bit less,” she says. A relationship: the script is rewritten during the performance. I nod. An arrangement as natural as idli with Chinese food; I go along with it.

—  Thuds of the emotionally concussed

I stepped on the Pagdandi thinking the world was a flat, predictable surface. The ankle turns like a hinge. Pain is a vertical distance I failed to calculate before the inevitable. A relationship: a cliff masquerading as a gentle, grassy slope. "Did you trip?" she asks, looking at the sky instead of the path. I am horizontal now; the shrubbery is exclusively offering a firm embrace.

— Thuds of the emotionally concussed

The faucet is a silver throat screaming at a temperature called extreame. I offer my palm to it like a bribe, or a small, wet animal. Nerves are slow historians; the regret arrives in a train three hours late. A relationship: a similar arrangement of plumbing and misplaced optimism. "Are you hurt?" she asks, while the skin decides to become a blister. I am looking at the drain; it is the only thing here with a clear exit strategy.

— Thuds of the emotionally concussed