They went to the lake to talk to the fish. You don’t know them. She cut a circle into the ice. The teeth of her new saw flashed in the light. All the arrows of her thinking pointed in the same direction. What happened to her old saw? I can’t tell you everything at once. Let’s say there are mountains. Paint them white as January. The snow falls down. Does she think the fish will tell her something? The thrust of the story depends on the answer, on whether she’s reasonable or not. A boy on a trampoline goes up and down, up and down in his invisible elevator. He is learning how to think about it. He is learning how to feel about it. His face is a newspaper. His heart is sweet candy. The forest is deep and wide. I am trying to tell you something. I set up my premises and they get knocked down. They get knocked down and they get up blurry. The speed of conversation is faster than the speed of thought. It takes too long to say it right. It takes too long because it is a philosophy. The bird has plumage. The mob has torches. This isn’t a story about my day, I am arguing a point. It accumulates. We’re running fast at a plate-glass door. We’re running fast, expecting it will open. I can’t give you what you want, I’m thinking in shorthand: small on the page but big in the head. Something is moving below the ice. I am trying to tell you but you’re not listening. It seems there is no end to this. The snow falls down and the argument jumps its tracks. And the argument begins to weaken. And the argument is beginning to weaken.