Years have passed, I suppose. I'm not really counting them anymore. But I think of this thing often: Perhaps there is a Golden Age someplace, a Renaissance for me sometime, a special time somewhere, somewhere but a ticket, a visa, a diary-page away. I don't know where or when. Who does? Where are all the rains of yesterday?
In the invisible city?
Inside me?
It is cold and quiet outside and the horizon is infinity. There is no sense of movement.
There is no moon, and the stars are very bright, like broken diamonds, all.
The Context: The final lines of This Moment of the Storm. The narrator has just experienced a loss, and is returning to hypersleep for the long voyage.
Why I like it: Based on yesterday's post, I guess I'm still in the mood to talk about Zelazny stories about alienation. When I first reviewed the story, I described the passage as beautiful in its melancholy.
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