If it seems like there's nothing to say then you are looking too intently and off to the side; there is nothing stranger than this and its mystery is inexhaustible. But its hard in a different way to be light enough, soft enough, quiet enough, not to look through the crystal, not to be caught reaching for all those shimmering colours, and instead to see the crystal, its watery edges, its deep facets that don't change or pass, to detach them from every idea of yourself. There's no need to make effort to love or be loved, or even to be worthy of love, it is already love. You were its gift, what you couldn't hold without scribbling all over, like a child with a book it can't yet read. The ink melts away in fascinating swirls, by grace they were only patterns of refraction, moirés that leave the light unstained, eternally at the centre.