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A deepening lilac sky burns above the grey stone of the walls, stars glinting in mimicry of the glass-topped bricks. Here in the lawn I can barely see the electric street-lights of the town.
It is reasonably nice under here— it smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, and the lemon wax of the table. It is also warm, and there is Vivaldi.
After a certain age, one’s graphology is as impossible to change as one’s phrenology. Proof that they belonged together, I suppose.
Cotidie damnatur qui semper timet.
