the illusionist

Nothing is like you remember it, and everything you encounter clutters your picture of how. Nothing remains of the world you remember; moreover, it’s impossible, it cannot ever have existed. It’s something other than love, something other than an absence of love. It’s a picture that arises when the two things are placed on top of each other. A blurred image in which all faces become strangely open and desolate, imbued with –well, what exactly, Time that won’t; a room that won’t.

And the grief on that account.

The illusionist.

Josefine Klougart, One of Us Is Sleeping