The world she wished permeated the world as it was, and she breezed, effortless as the flutter of eyelashes, until you believed. And who is to say I don’t do the same and for the same reason? Pouring pent up love over all the nights when only fireflies could save you. Now we are so literal, such good journalists recounting our slights and conditionals; but to her a better story was a better story, and no less valuable than the truth, and she was not alone, in her time, in that point of view. I love the dog most of all.