They passed out of the shade beneath the eaves and flew into sunglare and silence and it was an action she only partly saw, elusive and mutely beautiful, the birds so sunstruck they were consumed by light, disembodied, turned into something sheer and fleet and scatter-bright.
It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.
Silence, exile, cunning and so on... it's my nature to keep quiet about most things. Even the ideas in my work.
I think silence is the condition you accept as the judgment on your crimes.
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