She sat and started to play. The music was as wild, fevered, and colorful as everything else about that old life—not a shadow of the mechanical rational. So of course the people around me were right: they were all laughing. But a few . . . and why me, as well—me? Yes, epilepsy—madness—torment . . . slow, sweet pain—a bite—harder, make it hurt more. And then, slowly, the sun. Not our sun, no blue crystal light evenly shining through glass blocks—no: the wild, rushing, scorching sun—tear everything off—tear it all up into little pieces.
