With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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the enormous yellow moon balanced like a honeydew on the hill’s knife-edge, fat and implacable. It wavered there as long as it could, then started — who can blame it — its slow slide. As if it meant to show me what was missing. As if the world were asking, Will you learn to stand beside this pain? No, I said, I wish it dead. I said no. But the world said yes.
Ruth L. Schwartz