I drove to the farmers market, about a mile and a half away, over at Frontier Park, because I figured that getting out of the house and doing something would make me feel better, and it maybe did. I bought a couple steaks from one of the local ranchers, and chatted with the woman who manages the stall, as she saw to my transaction. Though as I was returning to the Highlander, which I’d parked outside the gates, on the street, about a five minute walk from where the vendors arrange their tables, it occurred to me that what I’d been feeling, and had been unable to articulate, was spiritual malaise. Which isn’t unlike depression, but which I don’t think is depression itself.