And it appeared to all the world that she was dead.
I stole you from Emily Dickinson.
In the patchwork grass / On the side of my yard / Fairies grow from the ground.
The storm was over, but its traces were far from gone.
I’ve scarcely lived yet, and I intend to do so.
And as lightning scarred the sky, and thunder sounded all around, and rain pelted the earth, something impossible happened.
Her vision of the future narrowed. It darkened into a tunnel.
Misery does not love company. But it does love memory.
I think that it would be mad not to be just a little devastated by the state of things.
For just a moment, time really could solve any problem.
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