Spring is a dangerous season.

The floodwaters rise, like they do every year, and if you don’t watch out they’ll wash away everything in your life that isn’t weighty enough or bolted down. And then one day you’ll wake to find that you’ve divorced your husband and cut off all your hair, and you’re running half-naked through the streets of some strange city with a foreign woman holding your hand.

Mirrors aren’t much good, in Spring. They can only show what’s holding still, and what’s practically dead already: all of the unnecessary stuff, all of the stuff that has got to go.