Life is absurd. We are born into a world without a clear reason and we must play silly little games and perform trivial roles in order to be accepted into said world. And, in the end, we disappear.
Just outside of Grey’s Papaya, there was an odd, frozen cluster of people. Neither my babysitter nor I could see through or over the group from afar, so we kept on walking toward it. Valerie squeezed my little hand.
"The sounds of the city echoed outside, but here inside the West Wing, I found myself confronted by a silent figure: a voiceless thrush in a golden frame." On a relief sculpture by Jean-Antoine Houdon.