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Winter is for dying, descending, hiding, forgetting. For being emptied of all we have, in preparation for receiving something new.
at some hard-to-discern point they become too old to fool. After that they just begin to play along.
In that moment of quiet, something seems to move into the space between the two of us, some haze or distance or unfamiliarity. She has disappointed me, and I too have somehow disappointed her, but how is for each of us unspeakable. We’re both too old to fool and too tired tonight to play along.
“Are you tired of what is? Are you so tired of it that you would be ready to hand it over, if asked, for something—anything else?”
IT’S a strange thing to suffer in a beautiful city; the beauty of the place is made dark in the mirror of your pain, and your pain is made beautiful in the mirror of the city. Afterward, the memory becomes dreamlike, as full of turbulent passion as a doomed love affair, which in hindsight becomes lovely, though you know that at the time it was hideous and horrible.
