I took the question of us and laid it across the table, where you had pulled your hands back. I thought you might have taken it between your fingers, but you just crossed your arms across your chest and let it lie and then seep into the wood, a stain on my table, between the nicks and scores, over old stains, under the stains yet to come. And one cannot unspill a question; one cannot unstain the wood and pull the question up and out. Yes, you can place your palms upon the table; you can feel the stains and nicks and know the things I’ve known. But you cannot be a part of this table, cannot be a leg or even a scratch. We, however, have left our stain, in the question of how we would proceed. Now, this is the color of indecision, here before you as we sit.