We meet someone. Maybe. Like them, or we don’t. We fall in love, or not. Stay happily together until death et cetera, or maybe not so much. It’s all sequential, linear, a perfect decision tree. It’s evening, I’m revising some poems displayed on the screen, and Ella’s singing. And there’s no straight line from here to there about it. The lyrics and their moods are all over the place, all jumbled up and sideways and what the hell is coming next. Just like every relationship and every day I can recall from the last seven decades. If it all went by the script, I think it would worry me more.