And so I should make some lists. Make a list of all the things I buy in a year and how much I paid for these things. Another of everything I didn’t buy but wanted and could not afford. A third of all the things I didn’t want but could have bought with the money I have—all the things and all their bags and all the things my body made. These investments that blossom or wilt. This debt that cowers in the cards. This social and compulsive spending on instant history. This constant and propulsive trading on floors. Cobalt streak in my daughter’s hair: what price does it demand? This precise and brightening square on the wall. This easy and hopeless desire for factories. This refined and aggressive plan for tariffs. This inwardly observing mental discomfort, I should own up to its cost too. This alarming and elastic thrust toward isolation. This feeble and feral wish for protection, a protection that never can be bought. All the pains and all the pleasures—cheap ones like moistening the lips, expensive ones like raising a girl—these too should be written and priced. And on and on into a hole that swallows.