« L'acte est la parole du corps »

This is what’s happening: together we are descending the stairs of the heart, which lead to the sources. (It is a secret staircase. I knew it existed. Which is why I avoided it. Because it leads to the other-life, deep, underground, the fluvial, the painful.)

We are in the process of descending into the depths of the heart. To where bodies communicate with each other.

All I know: I could only encounter you, my oasis, coming out of a desert. Deserted myself. This is all right. My futureless and solitary self. When suddenly I hear the voice of the springs--Right away you made me want to sing. To cry. Then to drink. But after the desert, the merest trickle of water sounds like a storm. And ever since, Promethea's every murmur shakes my life like an earthquake. I was asleep. I was not thirsty. It would have been possible for me not to hear the first three tears. Ever since I never sleep. I listen.

There can be no deeper despair, no pain less easy to assuage, than losing a husband when you are young.

I really don't know what's happened to me, but I have changed from top to toe. I am living in a strange mixture of memories of yesterday and today.

There is beauty in the midst of tragedy. As if beauty were condensing in the heart of ugliness. It's very strange.