On the other side of the trees there’s a Macondo being made of this town. The rainfalls, the emptying where it once was full. The drying like bowls of dust, where there is no glitter. The everything you read about. The everything that was written. The nothing. On this side of the trees I think of my Macondo, no emptying or drying. No nothing. The everything. A heaviness that forces you to forget your own name, and your own body parts. All of the Macondos, all of the houses, all of the blurs. But not this house. And surviving forces you to remember. And I‘m [still] not mad at the men who knew better, or at the women who became spectators, or at all of the liars. I look out the window and see no windstorm, the trees still stand, the sun still sets [of course], and I still feel guilty of course, and I still feel scared [of course], and I still feel, and I’m still unable to articulate. And so I write.