Went for a walk out of nostalgia for my peaceful little road and to have a cigarette, my clothes twisted all over me like I had just been sleeping and my hair messy and pushed back. An old man was jogging. When he approached me, he asked, "what language does the earth speak this evening, my dear poet?"

I laughed, because I always laugh when I don't know what to say. "She is silent."

"Ah, women are fickle and mocking, no?"

Indeed they are.