232 THIS YEAR, SO FAR I find myself lost in the news of statistics. The economy glazes into columns of indistinguishable symbols, clouding into some grim portent under which my primitive mind can only tremble and hope. Polls tick off who might think what now and when but math seems irrelevant in the shadow of amoral calculus. Numbers wilt against the wall of willful ignorance, like a dog forgotten in the sun, still worthy but abandoned. And the people. Counted. Dead. Four or more (not including the shooter), grouped and catalogued and added and subtracted and piled on the fire, glowing hotter and growing closer, leaving behind charred families and chasms, but not yet large enough to threaten us all. Though smoke has infiltrated the movies and the malls and the arenas and the churches and the mosques and the synagogues and the schools and the businesses and the homes and the streets, the entire world is technically not yet on fire. I find myself lost in math. I understand what equals what, but it doesn’t seem to mean anything.