Left in that hut. This is the problem with "trust." The rock forest extending beyond an overlook above the harbor. Its paper walls and wooden floors are almost enough, for willed meditation, its confines, that the husband will return. The garden is manicured for a crop of flowers. Each must be taken sparingly. Light extends half-shadows through the teacup pale hallway. Door open, the gown hanging, the sacramental knife. It is knowledge itself, the moment within its doors, that show the burden of passage.


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