It rained again all day, and the next day the wind picked up what it failed to scatter in its wake. Along the avenues, the first, premature blooms of spring while every tree gathers circlets of moss at its base. However hard I tried, I couldn't fill in the spaces with what I did not know. Every book I've ever read is a version of that reminder: we can't claim anyone or anything we don't own. And that is the whole world— its silences, upheavals; how time is motionless even as it fractures into color and life.