the front of the TV?
Without a word, without a look, she put the magazine down, got up, and went to the kitchen.
He was still staring at the TV when the power went out and the bright rectangular screen went completely black.
But the lines were still there. He could see them clearly when he closed his eyes.
(3)
‘We have art in order not to die of the truth.’
– Friedrich Nietzsche
Despair is what he felt. And futility.
Yes, he thought, despair and futility seemed to ring true. Naming his emotions gave him some relief. Even a bit of pleasure, he thought. The perverse pleasure of cynicism, as a martyr might feel.
She rarely talked to him anymore. She kept busy with her office work. Going over endless numbers, abstract charts and technical terms. Arcane sales language. Mumbo-jumbo to him. Pointless and numbing. She now spent hours poring over it, not looking at him, let alone talking.
How did it come to this? He wondered. He was dumbfounded. Hadn’t a clue. He knew there had been a time long ago when things were different. Perhaps they had even been in love. Though he intellectually knew those times had existed, those times of love, he could not now fathom how the days had gone when things were different, how they had related to eachother, how it had felt. He could