I used to say, “She had the moon, yet she was sad,” as if she were ungrateful. Today, I see it. I understand the weight of the cloud above her head — one head, a thousand restless thoughts. Night was her only refuge. Morning was her enemy — the sun, the loud cry of day. Her enemies stood smiling, lined up, ready to take, to tear, to disappear. She was right. And she was alone.