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Such hot-air thoughts deserved a second, bigger balloon and I poured it. Head propped in my right palm, I approached that ill-lit precinct where self-pity becomes a mellow pleasure.
Our age could devise a passable replica of a human mind, but there was no one in our neighbourhood to fix a sash window, though a few had tried.
“The other day, Thomas reminded me of the famous Latin tag from Virgil’s Aeneid. Sunt lacrimae rerum—there are tears in the nature of things. None of us know yet how to encode that perception.
Adam said, “Good,” and went on his way, while I felt it right there in my chest, the cool clutch of a cliché: my heart sank.
