Day seventy-two: sun full high in the trees, exhaustion at bay if only for the moment, this moment, when the sun is on my lashes and the trains are wailing in the open windows. My wrists and upper back ache and stiffen with holding the typist's position. I've had a monk's voice in my ears over the last few days, his slow stumbling English running over, rewinding, replaying the voice in his ears: a nun's flowing French as she reads to him from her pages, marking footnotes, quotations, subtitles, sections: thus in one-way conversation one halting word at a time, from her through him the book arrives with me, in my hands, at my fingertips.
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He laughs when he can't think of the right word, the best way to put things.
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&.
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