he keeps slipping out of my grasp. I reach out there, somewhere, into some kind of darkness that I want to believe is symbolic (or at least significant), and my fingers brush whatever it is she’s wearing but I just can’t grab it. I’m not sure if my grip is weak or not but it doesn’t feel like she’s forcefully tearing herself away from me either. It’s as if there is no friction between my fingertips and her fabrics.

So there I am still fussing with an obstinate book that I probably should’ve given up on some time ago. But I can’t give up. Something won’t let me. It’s probably fine, too, because I don’t think I’ve had any really good new ideas since then except for Rain and that book, like the big, nameless one, requires from me more skill than I have.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so intimidated by it. When I read Souls, from yesterday, I feel like it is somehow connected with Rain. It’s in that same style of unbroken poetic prose. I’m afraid that it’s too much, too rich, too dense, too alien.