My knife, acquired three years ago in Nepal in trade for a down jacket, now dull and stupid. I queue at the sharpener stall in the souk, five men working scissors, blades of all shapes, only sounds humming and metal wailing. An old bespectacled man wordlessly accepts it, inspects it, hands it to another at a wheel, ninety seconds. Back to the first who ministers to it with oil and stone, two minutes, back to me with one hand while reaching for another with the other, and they continue their seamless flow of coordinated skilled activity. I give a teenager what hardly amounts to a US dollar, he gives me back over half in change. I had placed the knife into movement naturally organized at every fractal level of resolution, like an eddy in a river or a pocket of interthreading smoke from fires in close proximity, and it emerged better than it was, than it ever was.