Music is a crucial theme running across the manuscript, like rewritten and overwritten palimpsests, however in sounding constancy.

Liam remembered the very first time that his Máthair Chríona sang the lullaby for him when he was a child, and an old ache squeezed his gut.

Eric stared at Brook—their shape was blurred by his teary eyes. Amber light filtered through the treetops of Sequoias and Redwoods.

Today, I find inspiration in the shape of a scar. I imagine that polka dots of blood can be read like musical notes spilling sounds.

I had thought that uncertainty and despair were the gradients of my life before I’d known about this flower growing inside me.