“What is blood’s currency weighed against the needs of a hungry child? Where do our efforts fall on the scales of worth? The scroll unwinds, the angels guide my little boat. I drag a net and haul away the cast-off coat, skin, loves, dying cells from the tides of the water body. I see myself on that same balcony of the Hotel Suisse, just a writer on holiday, dressed in white, gazing intently upon a triangular speck in the center of the bay. The vague itch returns. What shall I write of and what shall I vow? I promise to be good. I will write of a young girl who finds a small hand mirror lying in the grass. She signals to that speck, so far away and yet so very close. She joyfully leaps, suspends mid-air, then touches down with arms outstretched. Welcome, rebel hump, she cries, I am you.” — Patti Smith (Bread of Angels)
