Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don't know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It's that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don't know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.
Paul Bowles The Sheltering Sky
photo: F LoBuono
Did you ever try to estimate how many balmy, sunny weekend summer days you have left?
ReplyDeleteI do indeed, Ed and no matter how many I actually do have left, it's not enough! :)
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