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And the taut silence that falls over those who do, but don't know where or how to start. There is the awkward silence that fills the space between people who don't know what to say.

There is the hollow silence of a man who has stopped praying, and the airy silence of an empty synagogue, and the held-breath silence of someone hiding from themselves. The empty silence of the dead, and the heavy silence of the dying. There's the thick silence of places long sealed shut, and the muffled silence of ears stoppered up. The nicest days are always the ones we don't plan. Ideas are so much wilder than memories, so much faster to take root.

So much of life becomes routine, but food is like music, like art, replete with the promise of something new.ДЄ woman must take responsibility for her own education, for no man truly will. She keeps them tucked away, like slips of paper between the pages of her book. Some she's found by accident, others in the course of this or that adventure.

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It is so full of hidden chambers, infinite doors leading into infinite rooms, and if you have the time, you can find so many of them. This is what she loves about a city like New York. If you only walk in other people's steps, you cannot make your own way. My father made the grave mistake of sending me away to school, and the more I read, the more I thought, and the more I thought, the more I knew I had to be in Paris. The darkness claimed he'd given her freedom, but really, there is no such thing for a woman, not in a world where they are bound up inside their clothes, and sealed inside their homes, a world where only men are given leave to roam. To ease them open like a book, some passages underlined and others hidden between the lines.ДЇreedom is a pair of trousers and a buttoned coat. Live long enough, and you learn how to read a person. To walk alone in the morning is a scandal, but to walk alone at night, that is something else. And when they do go out, they go in groups, safe within the cages of each other's company, and always in the light of day. They are kept inside like potted plants, tucked behind the curtains of their homes. Women - at least, women of a certain class - never venture forth alone, even during the day. Some are cloudy, some are stormy, some are clear, but no two are ever quite the same. They say people are like snowflakes, each one unique, but I think they're more like skies. If anything, that storm has only made things worse, the world wet and dull, puddles brown with mud and filth. But it seems nothing can rinse the grime from the streets of Paris. It's nice to see someone looking up.Д«ack home, a good storm would wash the world clean, leave it smelling crisp and new. Buildings go up and come down, businesses open and close, people arrive and depart and the deck shuffles itself again and again and again. No matter how many times she walks these blocks, no matter how many hours, or days, or years she spends learning the contours of New York, as soon as she turns her back it seems to shift again, reassemble. All of it complete with 4K picture and stereo sound.ДЇunny, how some people take an age to warm, and others simply walk into every room as if it's home. Books are wonderful, portable, lasting, but sitting there, in the darkened theater, the wide screen filling her vision, the world falls away, and for a few short hours she is someone else, plunged into romance and intrigue and comedy and adventure. Of all the inventions Addie has seen ushered into the world movies might just be her favorite one. I do not want to die as I've lived, which is no life at all.

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Free to live, and to find my own way, to love, or to be alone, but at least it is my choice, and I am so tired of not having choices, so scared of the years rushing past beneath my feet. I do not want to belong to anyone but myself. And no matter how desperate or dire, never pray to the gods that answer after dark. If you insist on calling them, take heed: be careful what you ask for, be willing to pay the price. They are fickle, unsteady as moonlight on water, or shadows in a storm. The old gods may be great, but they are neither kind nor merciful. You don't know what you'll find, until you step outside. It is the seam between winter and spring - though seam suggests an even hem, and March is more like a rough line of stitches sewn by an unsteady hand, swinging wildly between January gusts and June greens. What is a person, if not the marks they leave behind?