It started a few days ago. May 3rd to be exact. Clarification: it has been 5 days since I was condemned to this new precision. All has been stamped, cataloged, filed. My habits are no longer my own. I witness the turmoil of a sick world condensed into my patient list. My diagnoses are multitudinous, and yet must remain exact; what then of myself? Suppose I began singing. Suppose I reheated last night's tom yum goong. Suppose I had someone with whom I could share these left-overs. I dialed home. I waited three rings. Would she answer? Or God forbid, someone else? I decided then and there to make a wager. Either she would answer, and I would be saved; life would display order. Or, if a suitor, I would drink a vial of acid. Endless ringing. I hung up. I considered this "order" of rotary phone calls to a woman without voicemail and a fallback plan of death-by-acid. I started to laugh, but the shaking reminded me of when I had been a house painter. My signature: a dollop of cigarette ash I would mix into my final brushstroke. Never did this affect the client's color. I took immense pleasure in my knowledge of the hidden corruption in every colorful facade. This is why I became a doctor; my diagnoses are paintings.