I will spend my future in a hospital of my own design. I must construct a convalescence as I have made myself sick. In the sick-making though, I have not really made anything. A mood maybe — a disposition. So how am I to build myself out of a mood? A few wooden beams might form a scaffold ... on which I could swing my problems ... for simple joy or until they “go away.” But it takes many more boards to build a room that I could paint cheerfully, or open a window in so as to see that the world is brighter than what I have enclosed.