Noyade: Chapter Three

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I like it when you're like this.

Like what?

When you're happy.

Noyade is vague as a cloud.

She says paper is the orphan of trees.

Question mark.

Cellulose pulp. That is what paper is made of. But I like her answer better. The child in her enthralls me. I do suppose that this is what my journal is composed of�"children. Several. She will never read them, of course. She will never know their names, their page numbers, their unwritten faces.

I love her more than God loves her, but I can never say that. I can only

write

it.

And these children love her. Can you not hear these pages

weep.

Question mark.