A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl. A woman who writes knows too much, such spells and fetiches! As if elections and congresses and products weren't enough; as if machines and galleons and wars were never enough. With used furniture she makes a tree. A writer is essentially a crook. Dear love, you are that woman. Never loving ourselves, hating even our shoes and our hats, we love each other, precious, precious. Our hands are light blue and gentle. Our eyes are full of terrible confessions. But when we marry, the child leave in disgust. There is too much food and no one left over to eat up all the weird abundance.