Once, long ago, when I was still young, when the memories were far more vivid than they are now, I often tried to write about her. But I couldn’t produce a line. I knew that if that first line would come, the rest would pour itself onto the page, but I could never make it happen.
Everything was too sharp and clear, so that I could never tell where to start – the way a map that shows too much can sometimes be useless.
Now, though, I realize that all I can place in the imperfect vessel of writing are imperfect memories and imperfect thoughts.