How quickly I lose my love of all things. I nearly flick an ant off the cliff of an armchair. But remember, Self, the week you spent enveloped in psalms intoned by monks? By Wednesday you beheld a three-balled body creeping around the onionskin of your book, its six teensy toothpick legs bent into all manner of delicate angles. Your chest became a doorway to a spacious unmarked heaven. You loved the ant. The kingdom, said Christ, is at hand, meaning not ticking above in a time bomb of gold- paved streets but tapping its antennae along the heart line of your imperfect palm.