I don’t know if this counts, but I saw a small mole on my forearm last week—just a tiny speck, really—and I scheduled three specialist appointments, one for each weekday, to ensure it wasn’t, you know, terminal. I suppose it’s an acute fear of non-existence, a peculiar form of attachment perhaps, because I remember thinking, quite clearly, that I haven’t even finished the drawings for the azalea cultivars, and who else would appreciate their delicate, almost melancholy perfection? I think maybe I’m still waiting for someone to see them, to *really* see them, the way I do, before it’s all just… gone. It’s a bit silly, isn’t it.