Nothing ever just ends.

Oh, there’s a lead-up of sorts – hints, signs, signals, symptoms. It happens. Not at once though but a gentle slide out. Then when you turn to look, only odd bits of furniture are left, pieces of newsprint, old and unpaired shoes. Your fingertips leave strings of thought in the dust on the desktop. Initials are carved in the wood, notes pinned to the wall, unexplained titles and quotes.

It’s all there really if you just look.

Is there any excuse? What’s to say? The food was lousy, the band was too loud, the alcohol was cheap and the dancing too fast. It just can’t be undone.

And yet…

hopperOffice in a Small City
Edward Hopper, 1953