Unbroken I wouldn't know how to describe a painting or a sonata, but I can tell someone how I feel, though they rarely know what I mean. Words fail me often, but nobody notices. They aren't listening anyway. One person knows me. When I talk to him I feel like a knife in a drawer, because my words have power. The possible damage would be irreparable. He and I are like a house falling apart. Our sidewalk is askew and our mailbox is missing. It is painted pink and yellow. We love it, it's unique. Last night I stomped my feet through the floorboards because I wanted to feel my toes in the earth. I pushed