I stood there and stared, into the sky and at the city around me. I stood, hands at my side, and I saw what had happened to me and who I was and the way things would always be for me. Truth. There was no more wishing, or wondering. I knew who I was, and what I would always do. I believed it, as my teeth touched and my eyes were overrun.

The pages and the words are my world, spread out before your eyes and for your hand to touch. Vaguely, I can see you face looking down into me, as I look back. Do you see my eyes?

The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this.

It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.

Everything was good. But it was awful, too.

I just know that right now, we want to be proud. For once. We want to take the struggle and rise above it. We want to frame it, live it, survive it. We want to put it in our mouths and taste it and never forget it, because it makes us strong.

When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.