Words shimmer, a darting cloud of tiny minnows ripples beneath the surface of the water.
Ungraspable. We sleeptogether in onelargeroom laid outin rowslike smallfishhungtodry . . .
But something’s gone wrong with the words in time—syllables linger, refusing to dissipate or fall into
silence—so that now there’s a pileup of sounds, like cars colliding on a highway, turning meaning
into cacophony, and before she knows it, she is adding to the din, wordlessly, soundlessly, with a
cry that rises from her throat and goes on and on forever. Time swells, overwhelming her. She tries
not to panic. Tries to relax and hold herself loosely, resisting the instinct to tense and flee. But
where would she go?
-Tale For The Time Being, Ruth Ozeki