Four months

Nearly four months since my last post.  I'm trying to figure out what I might have done in that time.  What I was doing.  Working, I guess.  A lot.  A trip up north, the holidays.  I find it easier to list all the things I think I might have done, would like to have done, but for some reason, didn't.  There is no story arc to the last four months, no trajectory.  No raison d'être.  If it would be helpful, here is the pronunciation:  ʁɛzɔ̃ d‿ɛːtʁ  

So let's go back to the little black box and Irma.

At about 10 o'clock, Irma found herself sitting in the little wing chair in the corner of the living room, the chair no one ever sat in, the one upholstered with hot pink peonies on a beige background.  She was thinking about buttons and coffee stains and little gold stars and feeling disoriented.  Her left leg kept bouncing, even when she reminded herself to stop.  She hadn't had that problem since she was ten years old.  Sit still, Irma.