but my lies are growing thinner and thinner now, they are pale gray and white and pastel-colored, but they are growing more and more transparent with every day. I can always sense November, but I write September. In a museum I study some Roman glasses, colored, milky. That is how it is. My lies have become a thin layer of glass. You can see through them, they have a hint of color to them, a thin layer of past times, of wear, only a touch of pigment, but I can see it: these glasses are full of November.
