Through the bent midnight lens, we listened to the ravings of the girl with the yarn-colored arms. She soared over stacks of books appearing for that moment as if riding a hammock on a windy autumn’s day before she landed nose first on the couch. Her flight reminded me of the cold-morning car’s exhaust, the smoke heaving and blowing with the passing cars as if to jump from their path before falling in behind, trying to catch that moment where it should have touched but let them slip past.

I held out my arms and expected her to come running. She did and then veered to chase a different path. When I asked, she stopped and pondered before telling me that she searched for the start. “All places have a beginning,” she said. “And it’s best to get that out of the way before attending to the end.” I asked her the difference between the two, and she looked at me sadly, as if by me not knowing that truth, I missed much in life.

When her pity became unbearable, she explained it simply: “The beginning is where you start, and the end is the beginning but transformed so you can’t know it before arriving.” She could have gone on but she left it as that and me staring after her as she skipped in search of what it is I missed.