An inverted, roughly triangular reflection projected into the darkness a few feet outside the bus window . . .

I cannot pick up a child, grate a hunk of hard cheese, fold towels, play volleyball, be on the beach, in the sun, in the rain, in the snow . . .

I was in bed reading Leopardi on vastness, a subject that since a little after one a.m. had overwhelmed me, like a cascade overwhelms a leaf . . .

Manny was bleeding and would probably be dead in an hour or two. Still, I couldn’t get Ana off me . . .