We are expanded by tears, we are told, not reduced by them.

The past is still, for us, a place that is not safely settled.

Moments before sleep are when she feels most alive, leaping across fragments of the day, bringing each moment into the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils. The day seems to have no order until these times, which are like a ledger for her, her body full of stories and situations.

So we came to understand that small and important thing, that our lives could be large with interesting strangers who would pass us without any personal involvement.

From this point on, she whispered, we will either find or lose our souls.

Some people you just had to embrace, in some way or another, had to bite into the muscle, to remain sane in their company. You needed to grab their hair and clutch it like a drowner so they would pull you into their midst. Otherwise they, walking casually down the street towards you, almost about to wave, would leap over a wall and be gone for months.

A writer uses a pen instead of a scalpel or blow torch.