I creep down the page, one foot after the other sliding to the next line of text, feeling my way with my bare toes. The light around me is dim and creamy, the glow of the night-reading lamp beside her bed. I look up and out and there it is like a hazy moon. I see it through the tall window on the landing of the staircase of words, casting its radiance into the house that is written around me. There is carpet under my feet, a runner of intricate weave and convoluted design—the subtle subtext of her entries, the story within her story, and the sprawling arabesques of her handwriting. I could pull them up, those inky loops, and hang myself with them. Would she see the swaying shadow of my body on her wall?