I know that all women wait. They wait for future life, for all those images forged in solitude, for all that forest that moves toward them; for all that immense promise that is a man; a pomegranate that suddenly is opened and showed its shining red seed; a pomegranate like a ripe mouth with a thousand sections. Later those hours lived imagination, made into real hours, will have to take on weight and size and rawness. Oh, my love, we are so full of interior portraits, so full of unlived landscapes.