Water follows me home like a ghost. La grisaille with long feathery arms lets me in. 'Whereto next?' it whispers, and white birds fill my heart with longing. "How much room is there for memory, in the loose girdle of soft rain?" I want to tell you, too late, it can hold a hurricane, if you open the windows and pick up the broken birds. Save the ones you can save, and bury the others. That is love. It is hopeless, and yet, I go, I went, and I keep returning.