Roquentin

"we've fallen on days," leigh said. all hands, blurred
motion. those praying hands. the tragic famine of 
words unsaid, hours misspent. it's all flash, after 
all. the photographic momentary work of our senses 
viewing, tasting, living to deny the bittersweet 
desire of whispers written across days of days' lament 
... the silence we offer, never to recompense the 
experiences we've borrowed.