When a woman lives alone.

I’m reading Shōnagon and you’re still asleep. It’s been five months in this bell jar; it feels like five years. I also live under branches. One of the bowmen in an archery contest stands trembling for a long time before shooting; when finally he does release his arrow, it goes in the wrong direction. It’s the end of the year, but I wouldn't say no to the water month, and I wouldn't say no to something sweet. I give you every resource you need to understand. It's left to right, up to down. It's even in English. It’s hard for me but I’m trying, I mean, I live under branches, too. The sea is a frightening thing at the best of times, and I’d rather not live in these places. I’m writing lists like Shōnagon and no one knows where you are. You’re not the only one that needs. A carriage overturns. One would have imagined that such a solid, bulky object would remain forever on its wheels. I saw she was busy gathering wood for a fire. I'd like to help her some, but she replies, "it's done."