"I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. ” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed.
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