Only at this point could I begin to understand the reason for the broken bottle’s fall. I can still hear it shattering on the floor of every room in this house, and also outside, far beyond these walls. Its fall is continuing elsewhere already – in another city, at another hour, someone will break a bottle containing water tinted with flowers. And this motion will repeat until all space is filled with its fragments, until the universe is composed of nothing but this glass. The clink of falling glass becomes the rhythm that organizes everything. It determines the swaying of branches, the bursting open and closing of buds; it sets in motion all seasons, all weathers. Each time a drop falls from an icicle or fountain spout to break on stone with a smack, it is because the broken bottle wanted to go on tumbling through space.