To emerge out of the mineral feeling young and with very little dust left clinging,
to be mistaken for naïve after so much traveling—it is a rare gift to continue. I
read in my thoughts there was a darkness—call it solitude and felt for myself. It
was not me, and it was not my story. But I am tenderly impressed by the sublime—a
boat, an earthquake, a narrative of history to revive against, like standing in that
cold current and waiting to be taken or to withdraw. I never know which it will be
because I choose to wait.
