Hearts grow smaller with time. You cushion it with a layer of fat for protection. Instead of other hearts, you learn to love the moments, you learn to take apart the scene anatomically so that they are no longer attached to faces. If this makes us a little paranoid, I'd rather blot out the heavy gazes and replace it all with noh masks. I'd rather focus on the soup pan at hand, the way it is being pushed across the table, steaming and sad, back and forth, spice and soup. Objects as vessels of emotion, like a perpetual movie set, we shuffle in silence.