happens so slowly, you just sort of don’t notice it. Not until that final straw lands and you go over the edge. Sometimes it does so slowly, drifting down and falling softly onto the pile of similarly harmless-looking straws, all of which are deceptively suffocating. Other times, it’s that last giant stick that comes crashing down on your little teepee of sticks and straws and obliterates your carefully-constructed cage. Either way, when the fog clears a little, you’re left in the same condition – with one little hand waving weakly out the top of the mountain.