I hear typing so I go over to see what my wife is writing. There is something like a museum about her tonight, a feeling of great space and flames that burn unseen, inside houses in the nineteenth century. I suppose she can hear hooves go past, outside. I suppose that she can sit by the sill for hours, her page filling with words: She believes, for example, that the tongue is the sill of the body. And speech? Who knows how speech is made, each word like a man or woman who moves slowly before a window, and stands there for a moment, then moves away again. Now the houses fill with light. Outside, the wind, looking for someone else, goes down each street.  end