Читать книгу The Healer - Greg Hollingshead - Страница 16

But of course nothing had been concluded, for it was not necessary for Ardis Troyer to know the reason she bothered in order for her to continue to do so, and slowly, with the persistence of fire, or life, the argument resumed, its participants ever more voluble and repetitive, luxuriant each in their refusal to yield, appearing never to progress but always progressing, like a dance or a sport or other human activity constantly on its way to repose, if never conclusion. And though patterns were retraced they were not on that account the same, informed as they were by histories of their own recurrence. Meanwhile overhead the high winds of the lower atmosphere had stripped all clouds from the face of the moon, allowing the light from the sun that reflected off that spheroid mass of dust and rock to brighten the air and the floor and the foot of the bed in the attic room where Caroline Troyer could see it by the translucence of her eyelids as she listened to the commotion from the street now generally waning but more raucous when it did erupt and the now gentler scrape of the curtains. And always the insistent resonance of the duct as her father made his stands on behalf of his version of her and of her few conceivable futures and of his own need, in response to her mother’s stands on behalf of her version and her need. And none of this was the same. None of it, ever. Because none of it was as it had been the last time, for there had been no last time, not really, and even were it all as old as that four-and-a-half-billion-year-old satellite lit by a star only slightly older, it would still be in the perceiving of it constantly new, because the perceiving was informed by the energy that all of it had come from and was still coming from and still falling back into, and that energy did not dance to time’s music but time to its.