Ibid

There used to be flowers and candles. Where have they gone? We've been reduced to the grind, you and I. All that is left is the grim struggle, the day to day. Onward we march seeking some respite only to find more of the same. Ibid. Ibid. Then like lightening, something horrible and frightening, and we are stricken. Panic followed by depression. And when it passes and the crisis has gone, we are content with the grind where there are few surprises and little pleasure. At least, we tell ourselves, there is no terror.

But it lurks out there. We can feel it.

It is time to focus. . . on a color, on a shape. A flower will do. Cut flowers and a glass of expensive wine. Something you can't afford to drink quickly. Something to arrest the attention. A new tablecloth, deep red with tiny subtle blue flowers. Small bits of yellow. The house clean, a little light coming through the window. I am happy again. This is what I remember. It is the happy life. I will take a walk.

The horribleness is so big. Pleasures so small.