Saturday, 26 January 2008

I went there again today, without you. Your sister used to work upstairs, for Greeks. Greeks upstairs and down. Downstairs was where I went, the breakfast place. One year ago we were there, radiating our complexity. Today, my attempts to radiate anything were strained, and the yogurt was not. This last a minor disaster: I'd gone in, sentimental motives aside, for the yogurt, which I remembered having impressed me with its generosity, its texture, its honey & walnuts; a trace of romaiosyne in the otherwise predictable breakfast menu. Traces, traces only.

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