To grow old is to fade, to become transparent.
To grow old is to fade, to become transparent.
“I’d just, averting my gaze from the resettling of poor Ros, caught a glimpse of Alison past the bent back of her husband: she’d also turned away and was now watching the tall police officer, Bob, scrape dried blood off the walls into little pillboxes, and I thought, captured once more by the illusion of patterns: What love shared with theater is the poetry of space…”
Robert Coover | Gerald’s Party