Then one morning you wake up and the world seems as hard and slippery as an avocado pit.  You rub it under warm water until the last green is gone, and even then, it’s slick with life.  As you towel it dry, you think you want to keep it, but you don’t know what you’ll do with it.  This is not a good time in your life to start an avocado tree.  With your index finger and thumb, you make a temporary globe stand, and you spin the world slowly.  You see the equator your knife has cut, the world’s veins bordering unnamed countries.  Now you know what you must do.  You begin to name each country for its briefest luxury, but in the time it takes you to recognize the most obvious nations—Water, Potatoes, Poetry, Love that Doesn’t End in Murder—the world has begun to dry up and collect crumbs.  Already mid-morning, and real work yet to be done.