“When you were a child, you tell me, you lived under a tin roof, and whenever it rained, beneath its slanting body, you’d sit and listen to the millions of pouring droplets. In them you found tiny signs of the world, a place where you could make sense of things through a divine sound that poured over you. This sound, you say, cloaked your entire childhood, and underneath this sound were the memories of your unfledged years. She seems to have cut ties with time; a minute to her would be a meaningless sound, an hour a gentle breeze. She seems to glide through time, as opposed to everyone else who scurries behind it; perhaps her relationship with time has resulted in mutual indifference, for they have lived with one another for so long that they’ve gone their separate ways; but they respect each other, her and time, from a metaphysical distance.” ChildhoodRainMemory Book:Birds on a Carousel Source: Birds on a Carousel