All my lovers give me bookmarks. They seem to think I must read a lot. I put all the marks into the same book, the one I never open. When I can’t sleep at night I think about how I should, how I ought to open it and see what I’ve marked. What would a story made up of only my marked pages be like? I never do it, though. Perhaps I don’t—or so I think when the night feels just a little too long—because whatever this story might be like, it would be about its being all over already, and about the possibility of adding any new marks. About there not having been any sense in reading this story in the first place. Because it’s all happened before. That’s why I just look at the tops of the bookmarks peeking out of the book. Thinking.