We both laugh and run and the moment is so thick around me that i feel like dropping into it to let it carry me.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

Yes, I'm often reminded of her, and in one of my array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell. It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt - an immense leap of an attempt - to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.

Clearly, I see it. I was just about to leave when I found her kneeling there. A mountain range of rubble was written, designed, erected around her. She was clucthing at a book.

There were people everywhere on the city street, but the stranger could not have been more alone if it were empty.

The day was gray, the color of Europe.

Even death has a heart.