Chapter 114, The Gilder

Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep down and do believe.

The silence is so complete he can hear the whispers inside him. Mostly names of women. Women gone or dead. The ones we loved so easily. What is it, he wonders, that we had then and don’t have now, that we once were and are no longer.

Cors de Chasse

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies in the breeze