This morning the sunshine is not as full as it has been, mornings; color doesn't come of it as easily or as richly. I look out at rather a meager world.
There's a delegation of historians from Jassy here today: they make their requests, I serve them their papers, books, microfiches. I'm turned off by the nationalist cut of their suits and of their lines of inquiry. Nothing I say pleases them, besides.
My cousin X is of the opinion I should get out of Moldova, like she did.