My marbles are lost. They’ve rolled under the bed, between my shoes and behind this mornings breakfast bowl. Will I pick them up? I should. But it’s become such a tiresome task, collecting them one by one, delicately tying off the bag in which they reside, only to have someone tug at the draw string slowly, slowly. But I always make the final tug, don’t I? Bringing upon the familiar clack clack clack of glass smacking the floor.