And what different am I from the others who have written about the leaves jingling like bells? And why is that so wrong? because of this force pushing us into what we ought to be? a damned species made to die, and to fear it throughout our lives, of listening to the leaves and sight-seeing in Nashville, and then passing on that dying life to other little humans?
Then what makes a species, Eve? And what is so wrong about being the same when you have the ability- and choice- to be happy, though it feels as if you don't? Then you searched and searched at the different, yet similar faces, and looked hopelessly into your hands, and then you saw it- your fingerprint- different from them all, unique and authentic. Then Kitty read your palm, her breath smelling like sour cinnamon. And you looked at the sunset, dark blue and orange, and you said to the sky, "For me?"
