After a time the storm somewhat diminished. The city hissed like the embers of a great fire that resists hose and bucket.
Now, I was invaded by that projection of self-pity which Catholics think is love and Protestants believe is duty. I saw Ricky and Karen and my family, all my fond, patient friends—in sorrow. Great tears glistened inside me and their tiny counterparts ran on my cheeks.
No, I cried. Spare me not for myself—I am reconciled; but for them.
I investigated such intricate delicacies in Ricky as I have not attempted to describe here and I saw how sorrow would run through them all; I watched the infinite loyalty of a daughter turned by the slab of a tomb; I saw my family lifting up the load of their one more bereavement and my friends kicking stones, not selfishly, but for the world they hoped I might someday somehow bring my jot of meaning to.
I paced the muggy flat and cursed.
And more.
I shall not tell you for you already know the sentiments whereby love, and duty, too, are transferred. Only at long, long last I realized how much I, who own nothing but my inner self, had imagined I owned them.
It was an injury I'd done them.
And so one more illusion set aside its mask, at least for that while, that now.
How many there were!