"There is no true connection between love and poison and yet they seem to be points on the same map"
---John Cheever.

The old coast, of days long gone, brought back in the hazy light of a late afternoon. The intensification of light, the whiter it gets, the less clear you are. The light that distinguishes, draws out your shadow, is real. Somehow, you believed the quality of the light, its apprehension, was linked to your moral understanding.

The darkening of our hands, the narrowing down of our eyesight, trying to pick out a word like a blanched bone. You, with your white glance my way, loving what you hate, veiling your desire. atone-ment, when we must stay partly lost to find each other...this shrewd obliquity of speech, the broken word,and the white lie, the bleak skills we learned, to get on by, without being noticed.