Sophie’s life was characterized by a series of feelings. In each different, varyingly, and often it felt abruptly or unapointedly, sequinted chapter of her life she possessed somewhere deep and independent of curation a feeling unlike one of joy or sadness. It was a sort of mote really. It comprised of several types of feelings perhaps, like elements, but they could not be distinguished from each other. They blended in such a way, with other even forgotten hopes, desires, people, and smells that they came not to resemble each other or themselves, but rather became something of a kind of otherness which Sophie could neither find the bearing of nor could ever articulate in either actions or words. They were just incredibly strong, too strong for something so vague which in her mind could at its best present it self only in pictures, surely transmuted at that, and brought her great disappointment. “At one point I felt this way, this very feeling, and now I no longer do, and never will again.”