Yet, no matter how deeply I go down into myself, my God is dark, and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence. I know that my trunk rose from his warmth, but that's all, because my branches hardly move at all near the ground, and just wave a little in the wind. - Rainer Maria Rilke
The broken spine of the book shows the webbing of binder's string, and my fingers have worn white spots in the cover. - Susan Straight