Sitting here at my computer I can see reflected in a blank section of the screen the bright window behind me, and visible to me, in a ghostlike form, are the branches of the tree beyond the window in the garden behind me. The sky looks pink and white in the reflection but I cannot tell without looking around whether the sky is actually this beautiful colour or if it is merely an effect of seeing the window reflected in the laptop screen. As I type, the screen itself judders minutely, and the reflection stirs, making the already blurry branches swim and wobble, as though immersed in moving water, and the minute, skeletal/almost fractal pattern of the branches is utterly beautiful and it makes me wonder why I’m facing this way, where I can see the door to the hallway and an empty plastic milk bottle on the table in front of me and the blank white of the kitchen wall when behind me is—