You
die
when
your
spi
rit
dies.
O
ther
wise,
you
live.
A boy has wet himself on the stairs. This explains his open hands and the book sliding down the stairs into the dusty courtyard. One would think such a collection has no business looking so miserable, but now we can barely make its pages fluttering out through the clotheslines. He is failed. When he is frightened, small things slip through his fingers, like grain—but he was merely startled by the apartment door closing soundlessly. It almost hadn't happened at all. No matter. From this day forth he will be a vigilant man with a curiously wet leg; he will pretend not to know what has made him old. He will tell great stories of courage; he may have many children. But why has he left the book to fade, its back cover in the sun?