Tuesday, December 28, 2004


Our lives are fragile, beautiful things.

They feel to us like robust, vibrant machines that we ride along with; they are in truth ephemera we cling to tenuously.

There is nothing to say. I know some of the laughing children who I played with on the beach may have died; the friendly people of Mama; the throng that makes Chennai so exhilaratingly dirty. The small part of me that became part of them is extinguished. The small part of them that is part of me is fixed for the rest of the time I live.

We are nothing, in a world that we flatter ourselves we control but sometimes we cannot even bargain with.


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