““…It is a blank wall, an old wall― a heart burdened by drought and clay: write your name here, but don’t pierce it with nails. Be careful with his limbs: mend him with fine yarn and don’t rip his hem, gather up his stray threads, and squeeze him gently when he is wet― even if he seems like just an old shirt, really, he is a heart. Like a flag flying in a free country you are waving in my heart. Who wept on the breast of the other? Only the wet shirt knows the answer.””
