Serial Library passage July 16

16 Jul

I can see Jill laughing, babbling, what’s the word I want here? She is like a little brook, a little stream of water traveling in a single direction. She’s single-minded. But she’s not single-minded. She’s everywhere at once and nowhere I can capture. She never smiles, but she always smiles. She always has a smile hidden away inside her and you know it’s there, you can see it, even if you can’t see it, you can see it bubbling near the surface, bubbling out of the middle of Jill, as though Jill could smile from her navel. Jill Underhill is not a river, but she is a river. She is the inordinate not-minding of curves; the messy, unpredictable course of river over rocks, and river through mud, till river meets sea.

Sea is death. Death is river crossing over and losing itself, losing its character as river, entering the big black lack of light that is a giant body of water: the sea.

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