I said, I am looking at a photograph. In the photo, there are green meadows and there is the silhouette of a tree draped across the summer grass. In my fingers which are stained with chalk, I am holding a clementine. I hold it up roundly, delicately, offering it to you. We are not looking at the same full moon together, I said. We are looking at the same world, orange and whole. I did not say aloud until later that evening: a world as beautiful as the beautiful world can be.