My partner tells me she loves my melancholy because it allows her to be sad. What a delight, having someone use your smallness to bless their own size. Someone to touch your downsides and flip them over. How sweet, when low, to know, just by being so, that I am giving love. My melancholy is slow: but she says that with it I can move, and anything which moves may always rise. I see goodness murmur in this thing which I see so often that I no longer can, the way that sunset shows itself on the tops of buildings after the sun has sunk: its light moving upon her. In Uruguay, where I went home with her, they applaud on the beach when the last of the great orb dips under. Also, when the plane lands safely. The next time I begin to sink into myself, I will listen.