To speak is to bless the world, W. says. It is to offer salvation to all things. How can he explain it to me?

W. remembers a story I once told him about my monk years. Every night, before dinner, the monks would bless the garden with incense, I told him. Incense would waft through the leaves. It would waft into the night and towards the animals of the night, I'd told him. Towards city foxes and barn owls. Towards the slugs and the snails and the rats. Incense would waft to the people of the night, I'd said: to the prostitutes on the corner, and to the burglars who used our garden as a run-through. To the junkies looking for their fix, and the muggers waiting in their alleys.

It's similar with speech, W. says. We speak to the others. For the junkies and burglars. To the prostitutes on the corner. We speak to the outcasts, to the widows and the oprhans. We speak to the city foxes! The barn owls! We speak to the slugs and the snails and the rats! We speak to them, W. says. We address them.