I made myself a poached egg for breakfast. I salted it, peppered it, and ate it atop a buttered, toasted english muffin which I ate, bent over the kitchen sink while resting on my elbows. I bit into it and saw that the egg was perfect, because you never really know what your egg will turn out to be, but it was. Half runny, half not. Warm and salty. I ate half of it before it slipped off the english muffin and into the sink. I stared at it and at the reality that my sink egg will be egg I will never know the taste of. Like all of the possibilities in the world had slipped off into my kitchen sink. And that's the kind of morning I've been having.