“Are you talking to me.?” She, sitting from across the long table, & he, standing somewhere else in her mind, know the imperfection of this art. In these strange & accidental encounters, they also probe the words they use to probe the daily conversation of their days & nights—books, children, money, men & women of their private/public affection/affliction, et cetera; they also agree to agree that something good—something evil has been with them for a long time now—must happen after all; they never really pin down anything earthshaking, elemental—all truths are known, they who don’t know will eventually know—but the very truth of the truths they are telling. So it is hoped: that in the telling in this imperfect art, their truths may meet in the very silence of their truths, their hands may finally touch, & they may finally realize that common human truths—of love, justice, hope, cliches all but nonetheless true—are what they must make of their imperfect lives.
Sometimes, the gods are merciful.