I was going to write about a woman. A woman who built a glass hospital. She set aside a few mirrors, some scents, and beautiful teacups to drink out of. There were stores of fine linen, cheerful utensils, and small animals to stroke. Pear trees glistened in the dew. Lavender buzzed with bees around tea time. Scented stocks led you into evening dreams, where you curled up under woollen care and, from your throne, played with tendrils tied to the spiders of the world.

I was going to write about a woman. With spit and tears and letters in ink she constructed a glass sieve. Cool spring water driven in on well fed, internationally-schooled children gave life to the turning wheels of the mill that ground the diamonds into coal into glass into dust. The most precious dust in the world.

I was going to write about the woman. She owned a fur funnel and she chose what went into it, and named what came out.