"I'm stuck in that day. And I'm simultaneously stuck in the night before she died. She wasn't conscious. I didn't have a view about her unconsciousness. For the moment, I thought only of the night. I lay down beside her. I talked to her and told her she should rest tranquilly; we were there and were taking care of her. I said, On te soigné. Sleep. It's all right. I'm stuck in the day on the beach and in that night. Being stuck, I suppose, is a way of dying with the dead by stopping when they do. Yet the mother of the child I saw being born, in whose silence I had sensed a universe outside life, said, when I told her I was stuck in the night of my friend's death, that she was stuck in the night of her child's birth. You get stuck, then, when you meet up with something that makes the limit of your perpetual motion just too obvious." Myra Jehlen, F.P., in The Best American Essays, at 144-45 (2003 ed.).