talking. Some of the parts of me that are most me have still never talked. They can’t. I don’t know exactly how to explain it. If I was sitting in a room sorting rocks, or pieces of bark, or lost in splotches of light, or reading a book and someone came in and started talking, a part of me might turn and say something to them. It might say something and then say something else. But a part of me would keep its back turned. It couldn’t help it.
