Mice like to scurry in your halls, breeding exponentially, needing ostensibly, heeding insensibly. Kill them with your steel-toed boot but don’t forget about their wives back in their little mouse-holes, waiting for their husbands to be back with supper stolen from your kitchen. Manipulate yarn with wooden needles until you’ve made something beautiful. Hang it above your fireplace and watch as it fills with gifts that aren’t for you. Perch on the branches of the tree outside your childhood bedroom and sing whistling songs until your throat hurts and somebody yells at you to get down. Go back to the mousewives in their mouse-holes and tell them about your day; don’t mention their husbands.
