Truly being here is glorious. Even you knew it, you girls who seemed to be lost, to go under—, in the filthiest streets of the city, festering there, or wide open for garbage. For each of you had an hour, or perhaps not even an hour, a barely measurable time between two moments—, when you were granted a sense of being. Everything. Your veins flowed with being. But we can so easily forget what our laughing neighbor neither confirms nor envies. We want to display it, to make it visible, though even the most visible happiness can’t reveal itself to us until we transform it, within.
