In order to feel, he decided he would try to understand the language of water-lilies. How they grew, how they floated, how deep their roots fell into the lake. In the lake, where all things moved like French over the mind of an afternoon in his tenth year of being just a boy, he lay on a pink bed with wet diaphanous sheets, watching the shadows of a different European light pass slowly, in small, golden increments that felt like the hand of God. He suddenly knew why he was allowed to be alive. The moment was just an instant, and for the rest of his life, he sought to reconstruct this feeling, this fleeting glance of something that felt like more than just a passing witness of the hours of time. He wanted to feel the hands over him, he wanted the comfort of the shadow, its depth and coolness, its infinite capacity of time and relief.
(I wrotethis and Idontreallyremember itwell)