It was a slow process.
It hit the computer first. I woke up one morning and turned on the monitor only to see a warning message pop up menacingly on the screen. I closed it and waited. The warning popped up again. Every time I closed it, it would open up, its red letters flashing. I contented myself with minimizing the screen and working around it. The second was the shelf. I slammed the door and a horrible cracking noise let me know that I would have to find a new spot to keep my books. The printer followed a few weeks later, suddenly deciding it would print only single lines per page. I played with the different settings for a while, but eventually retired my printer to a storage above my closet.
It was a slow process, but eventually, over time, the little tragedies subsided. I looked around and did not feel a sense of panic at the ruins around me and the world turned back to the way it was before we had ever met. The world was a little messier, things less kept. Things were held with pins and needles, threatening every day to break. Warnings popped up and socks went missing. Printing was done at libraries or in hurried kinkos runs. Life was constantly on the edge of shambles and I got used to closing the door gently and working around the flashing warnings.
And then suddenly, I began to go back to the way I was as well. That’s what happens I guess. The world collapses, and you are stuck in an unfamiliar place without your guide. But then, slowly, you begin to gain direction, as if you have stored a safety in your long term memory, a place where you once felt at home, a place where you once felt safe, secure, and you, and slowly, you return there.
And now, to Italy.