In spirit she walks the city, traces its labyrinths, its dingy mazes: each
assignation, each rendezvous, each door and stair and bed. What he said,
what she said, what they did, what they did then. Even the times they
argued, fought, parted, agonized, rejoined. How they’d loved to cut
themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together,
she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?
- Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
|By Claire Price|