"I'm me,"she whispered. She was the child of myth and sand earlobes made of song. Was she part wind or part truth, or cement and water? She was burning husks of rice, now to put cold to sleep, now to dress in smoke. She collected bones every minute, Was it to build a boat, or to mark the absence of time? Her hair bled from tying up thoughts, hers, theirs, shifting ends, switching middles, the stagnation of forgetting. She did not know that questions were made of 'hows', 'whys', 'wheres' and 'whens'- these were just aberrations. She was old mud that smelled only of 'who'