“Have you not missed me?” He inquired. I take it, down where we're going will be nothing new to you. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. “You pushed the wheel from my hand. Still, that leaves over a million shrines short, not reckoning widows who re-marry. There was, it might be said, a double illumination.
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