I took comfort in making myself even smaller, tucking in my edges until I felt whole. Myself, a perfect and solitary thing.
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A violin plays, the notes lifting up and back down again, reverting in the end back again into air. I breathe. Somehow, it makes sense.
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You know that ache? When everywhere cries swan song, but no air can hope to hold you like a voice holds back the wind?
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Like all good stories, she & I began with remembering.
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The longing to be far away has been replaced by a longing to keep everything like this—alive, resilient, unquiet.
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A woman holds a box depicting a woman holding a box—and on backwards and inwards until the music stops.
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2:30 am. Soft piano pours into my ears like mercury. I am aching, but it feels beautiful.
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There is something magical about nighttime, the way it hangs in a fine balance.
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The music made Shakespeare transform into a dream-like world down here on earth.
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Polished china and an array of delectable pastries, the gazebo and rose garden, a small orchestra playing classical music.
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