Hardly the sort of thing you want to talk about.

If it weren’t for these conversations with you, I’d probably never have dared to imagine…

Blingle, zip, zurch.

Go ahead, say it.

Alright, here it is:

She is a flock of starlings, floating, billowing, pulsing. Never settling. Always finding new patterns and configurations. Diffuse more than water but not beyond vapor.

What thought may persist in these writhing folds and fomenting currents? What sober knowing hardens beneath?

She knows only this: No, she cannot even speak it. She cannot cast it into a mold of words. Indeed, she only knows it in part.

In fact, knowing is not hard and firm. Rather, it is tenuous and giving. It is a multiplicity of glances of glints from the wings of the starlings. Though each may in turn wink away, the overpowering force of the knowledge remains, reassuring her of the truth. And here is what it tells her: nothing. Nothing at all.

So, she flits on.