Sixty-five. On the subject of illumination.

It is often difficult to see moments reconstructed and replayed
in another person's words. Your voice translated into text,
clean and precise, without any sort of stumbling or mispronunciation,
which means that whatever has been written is already
a half-lie, which probably creates a perfectly sensible balance,
as every line that falls out of your throat is only half-truth.
What the other half is? Well, we're not far enough along in the story
to be able to tell yet. Once upon a time, a boy met a girl
and he named her home. Are you seeing a theme here?
Can you sense the loss? She had a name for him but she never said it
out loud. He used words like delicious and drunk,
and it carried them through the winter all right, but when summer came
her hands stayed empty. It wasn't what anybody wanted,
it was barely worth keeping on the tongue. Sometimes
you see so much brightness in a person, you can't look away.
It's like looking at the sun, it isn't any sort of good for you
and just because you feel it all over your skin, doesn't mean it's yours.