I see the poem or the novel ending with an open door.

To write about someone like myself would be very limiting.

Sometimes when she is able to spend the night with him they are wakened by the three minarets of the city beginning their prayers before dawn. He walks with her through the indigo markets that lie between South Cairo and her home. The beautiful songs of faith enter the air like arrows, one minaret answering another, as if passing on a rumor of the two of them as they walk through the cold morning air, the smell of charcoal and hemp already making the air profound. Sinners in a holy city.

There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border that we cross.

Fathers die.You keep on loving them in any way you can.You can't hide him away in your heart.

She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.

In Sri Lanka a well-told lie is worth a thousand facts.