Hard enough, amid panic and boredom and drastically shortened horizons, to simply treat a person nicely, put your hands into their hair until they shiver, until they push their face into your chest. She has wondered, before now, whether thinking about God is part of this. Wondered whether endlessly circling the same topics, harping hopeless and uncertain on God and on silence and deep, drowning lack have simply functioned as ways to keep her unhappy, keep her tight in the grip of an answer she can’t help seeking.
