all roads lead to Rome

There is no time for books, she thought to herself, but left a few open just in case it came to her, the word, the name she couldn't recall, that couldn't be found in anybody's heart. She had a love..for obsolete words, shadow words, things that had fallen or that were lost. Take a pencil, make a faint scratch, or leave the blank page as it is. A broken line from Sappho...

[

...]

Fall

[[..

[

for..

]

Lie back, and think of England.

She floated in and out of sleep, dreaming she was a fish at the bottom of the deep sea: Trop d'ocean, trop de ciel; her spine, a delicate and ancient bridge. Bridges know the meaning of distances, she reflected.

"I attach great importance to words, to the word that is spoken," she said, perhaps because they were always disappearing or always lost. 

She looked up at the shelf, from the sea bed: you can never really own a book, she thought. Held, briefly, yes, but then closed; then on the other side of her eyes. I'l s'agit de pencher le coeur...her hand, too, was a kind of bridge. She wandered about inside herself, inside her heart.

"Tell me another story," she demanded, "one that never ends, that keeps you here, even though you're not here."

But there is no story. 

"Then tell it to me".

But I don't remember it, not at all. 

She rose and put the books back in their place, covered herself and put kajol on to mark the death of the word. Silently she repeated to herself:

Ammel: the first light of morning, that covers everything, that makes the ice glitter and sparkle and the landscape new.