Now it is you who everyone presumes is so fragile. Wounded. Scarred. Maybe they’re right. Perhaps you are. A nursery rhyme comes into your head, and, like an egg, you allow yourself to topple onto your side, your legs still pulled hard against your torso. You lie like that a long while, watching the chrome shell of the tape measure sparkle until the sun moves.

You are not what others think of you, so don't worry about what they think.

— Քա՛ծ,— ասաց նա,— հարուստ քա՛ծ։ Սա պոեզիա է։ Հիմա ես լի եմ պոեզիայով։ Ապականությամբ ու պոեզիայով։ Ապականվա՛ծ պոեզիայով։

Written By Ernest Hemingway

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