In the catacombs of grief, she wandered. She wandered, without thirst, without hunger, without want. This frightened her. Had she lost her basic humanity? Why had she created such elaborate labyrinths in which to wander? Try saying that ten times fast, she said to herself. Good. At least her sense of humor was intact. She had possessed a need, or rather been possessed by a need for labyrinths, and wandering in them with no regard for time, since she was a child. And she had no interest in getting lost in someone else’s labyrinth. If I get lost in any labyrinth, I want it to be of my own making. She had gotten good at it: the labyrinth-making. Yet down here, in the catacombs of grief, which she thinks is below the labyrinth—but could she be sure? Maybe the catacombs were flanking the labyrinth (which would make them irregular catacombs, but still, when it came to her…). Maybe they were outside the labyrinth entirely. Orientation in the labyrinths is damned near impossible. She held fast to her inner compass. Which registered directional coordinates through mood and feeling, through intuitive forecast. Here, in the catacombs of grief, it was cold. No wind. Just pure cold, like being in a deep freezer. There was also the wailing. Who or what produced the wailing, she had no idea. But it made her heart weep. She cried and cried within, and it was there, the within that is within, where she saw and then became the woman using words, voiced, written, stitched together to form a raft, upon which she cascaded along the River Grief, which had been produced by the woman weeping her hidden heartbreak—the tall woman in the shadows crying secret tears for the wailing whatevers—the small woman tethered to the raft gliding downriver—they were both her, being watched over by the other woman, who may not even be a woman, a mysterious genderless figure, an enigma destined to witness, take notes. The whole thing, at times, was completely overwhelming. Could she crack? Would she crack? She thought of Humpty Dumpty, that poor existential sap. He fell, he cracked, and couldn’t be mended. The lesson there: not all get mended. Humpty became so much yesterday so quickly. And, God, with his Hoover vac, sucked up the shattered remnants of Humpty and that was that. She looked ahead. In the distance … there was distance. To look out into the distance, and see only more distance … there was only so much a wandering heart can take.