There is a pile of paper in front of me that has been cut and stitched together in a purposeful way.
All done with intention and methodical.
I inspect it carefully. It is not paper but spotless white linen. It is stitched with black lines,
I jump back from it. It has all been done wrong. But it is complete. There is no way to put it back together to get the information straight. To figure it out.
I try for a few minutes and know it is hopeless, I will be blamed.
I turn and close the door and cover it with with old newspaper.
I feel so sick with grief at my complete failure.