“She kept a notebook next to the bed in which she recorded dreams, ideas, or as now, word sequences. ‘Late in the evening we cut through the graveyard, laughing at nothing and stumbling over roots, bones, branches, columbine.’ Columbine. Columbine, just a flower. Mentioned by Shakespeare. But now no longer simply a flower. Impossible to use the word without the other association obliterating its simple meaning. But nonetheless it was duly recorded. Scott stirred beside her, so she turned... to look at him. Love, she thought, and wrote that down underneath the other words. The house was quiet. Aaron must still be asleep. On waking he usually began the day with a sort of howl of protest. Where did that come from, that attention-demanding noise? Was it some terrible knowledge of himself as a creature locked forever in a mind deprived of true human communication? Or was it like the cry of a baby?MoreLessRead More Read Less
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