I spent my whole life thinking that everyone around me was worried about the ceiling fan (whether it got tired) or about the chair that no one sat in (maybe it felt left out) or about the cement with a crack and a flower (because maybe the other cement was jealous of the flower) — but it turns out that my attention to everything, my ability to perceive literally everything (from a sister to a bird to a desk) with a soul, isn’t that normal.