It’s time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep – it’s simple and ordinary as that.

A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills, more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease, or if we’re very fortunate by time itself.

There’s just some consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) ¬†knows these hours will inevitably b y others far darker and more difficult.

Still, we cherish the city, the morning: we hope, more than anything, for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so.

The Hours, Michael Cunningham

 

 

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