This weekend, I did something I never do: got a massage. I figured if my pen wasn’t doing a formidable job of releasing the toxins in my muscles, a Korean massage therapist in TriBeCa would be a proper substitute. I laid down on the table, bare back exposed, and not forty-five seconds after he’d put his hands on my skin he said, “You’re a runner who sits at the computer all day, and you have constantly cold hands and feet.”

How quickly we forget that narratives are found other places than the printed page.