One day they'll let you out of that dry, empty cell. You'll return to the Separates, and you'll feel the rain once more. And you'll grow straight, this time, toward this sunlight. I know you will.

This be OK?' I asked, innocently. 'You want me to have no skin left?' You rolled your eyes. Actually, don't answer that one.

When I write this in bed, I can almost hear the echo of the wind over the sand, or the groans of wooden panels around me. I can almost smell the dustiness of the camel, taste the bitterness of saltbush. And when I dream, your warm hands cover my shoulders. Your whispers carry stories and sound like the rustle of spinifex. I still wear that ring, you know... at night, when no one is watching.

Your beautiful mouth was moving like a caterpillar. I reached out and tried to catch it.

I wrapped my arms around me as tightly as I could, and stared up at the stars. Had I not been so cold and wanting to escape so badly, I could have stared at them forever: They were amazingly beautiful, so dense and bright. My eyes could get lost up there if I left them looking long enough. [...] They swallowed me up. They were like a hundred thousand tiny candles, sending out hope.

I craved your warmth. I hugged myself, rubbing my fingers up and down. I guess people are like insects sometimes, drawn to heat, A kind of infra-red longing.

Because it's magic, this place . . . beautiful. And you're beautiful . . . beautifully separate. It all fits.