Writers are puzzle-put-togetherers. We experience the world through the lens of a language. We hear a word and see its descriptee. I say a word to find out what it means to you. A child sifting through puzzle pieces. I lose some under the couch. And find ones in the rug. And friends bring over new ones. Each piece gets bigger and more colorful. For example my pieces for ‘love’ and ‘energy’ swell and blossom. More than half the pieces are still missing. On top the coffee table is a pile of pieces and a few islands of connected pieces; one is the biggest and forms a corner but still jagged at its hypotenuse. I’m starting to think there are not enough pieces in the pile to complete the puzzle. I might go back to the store and ask for a complete set. Or just cut them myself. A friend comes over and I show her the puzzle. She says “i like this corner.” And pulls out a piece from her pocket and adds to the jagged hypotenuse. “Do you mind?” “Not at all.” I started to reconsider cutting pieces myself.