The ceiling falling, sudden, like a silk scarf, bought at the museum shop, Michelangelo’s sublime Sixteen Chapel ceiling drifting down to us, Adam extending a languid, effete hand, God’s finger outstretched, his muscled arm—excuse me, you’re right: it’s the Sistine, not the Sixteen Chapel, which nagging correction has understandably hindered us fully inhabiting the scene, which...
"but it’s late, they’re sweeping around my table, counting the till, and now I feel a finger, politely, firmly, tapping me." I like the metaphor, but for me even more than for you. I'm. pushing 80.
"but it’s late, they’re sweeping around my table, counting the till, and now I feel a finger, politely, firmly, tapping me." I like the metaphor, but for me even more than for you. I'm. pushing 80.
terrific! i will never look at that the same way again.