Even the word is awkward - and klutz is too. Two words that embody what they mean. W had often thought that, even as he bumped the corners of tables, and hit his head on the roof of the car. He could count the bruises on his body - big, small, contusions, dents, from the force of his impacts on the world. Every day was a bruise waiting to happen. He felt jangled most days, too, trying to sift through the clog of thoughts in his mind, which bumped and spilled onto each other with every physical jolt. His words spill out over each other, and his tongue trips on them.