Like all the other women at the table, I’m interested in refining the question, little melancholy equation that gives me hour after nerve-wracked hour:
There is no transcendent insight, only architecture. And so each panel of the fresco gets buried in our own muted history. I start to feel responsible for that silence. My first impulse is to try and pick up the broken glass, but you worry that the corridor is itself too much like a beveled mirror, a tiny kingdom and its inconsolable subjects.
Somehow you can only offer that
(In such a way the locked rooms within one’s mind become projections, the world an unlit house into which we desire.)