How can the mind be so imperfect?' she says with a smile. I look at my hands. Bathed in the moonlight, they seem like statues, proportioned to no purpose. 'It may well be imperfect,' I say, 'but it leaves traces. And we can follow those traces, like footsteps in the snow.' 'Where do the lead?' 'To oneself,' I answer. 'That's where the mind is. Without the mind, nothing leads anywhere.' I look up. The winter moon is brilliant, over the Town, above the Wall. 'Not one thing is your fault,' I comfort her.