'The plot of our life sweats in the dark like a face. 
The mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself. 
Grave visitations: what is it that calls to us? 
Why must we pray screaming? 
Why must not death be redefined? 
We shut our eyes, we stretch out our arms and whirl on a pane of glass. 
An afixiation, a fix on anything. 
The line of life, the limb of a tree. 
The hands of he and the promise that she is blessed among women. 
Oh God, I fell for you.’