On the scene that makes no sense until the end I hurt my right hand a while back. Nothing dramatic. Just enough that writing was off the table, which for me is not a small thing. Writing is how I find out what I think. Take it away and I am walking around full of half-formed things with nowhere to put them. I was annoyed about it the way you are annoyed by weather. It had no meaning. It was an interruption in an otherwise perfectly good month, and if you had asked me what it was for, I would...

On the search that keeps you circling, and what happens when you stop I injured my right hand a little while ago, which meant I could not write with it. Around the same time I interviewed a woman who suggested I try writing with my left. Not as a workaround. As a practice. She talked about it the way you might talk about a door, and given that my dominant hand was out of action anyway, the timing felt almost arranged. So I sat down and wrote with my left hand, slowly, badly. The letters came...

You can love someone AND decide not to be close to them. On the small word that took me years to learn, and the colours between black and white.