when I was a child, the children I was with did not turn on me.  like our parents after us, we took on faith that our present loneliness would go elsewhere.  if at any point I felt strong enough to lift a boulder onto my back, I became bored.  I was drawn to books having in them unreal prose dedicated to thunderstorms and I filled these books with joy.  I don’t mean it salaciously when I paint for you the few women cramming into an outside bath.  they had me surrounded.