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.

She entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others, in plots that stretched back twenty years, her body full of sentences and moments, as if awaking from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams.

all this Beethoven and rain

In the desert the most loved waters, like a lover's name, are carried blue in your hands, enter your throat. One swallows absence.

But we were interested in how our lives could mean something to the past. We sailed into the past.

I want to die on your chest but not yet she wrote sometime in the 13th century of our love

Truth, at the wrong time, can be dangerous.