The wine plays a melody on my bones as if they were the keys of a xylophone. In my zygomatic arch, the memories of outlines spark despite the dampness creeping beneath my clothes. If I squint my eyes, there are shadows of my hands as they once were. They’ve been so many places. Touched so many faces, yet here in this lonely hour, they appear as they always have—withered. Deformed. Unable to write anything with discernible meaning. I haven’t learned. I never learn. No matter where I go, the thing...