all my proust is belong to me

I now have all the volumes of the modern translation of In Search of Lost Time. The Post Office fairy mail carrier visited my enchanted glade apartment and dropped off the last three. By curious coincidence the mail carrier turned out be someone I went to high school with.

It's been a while - and by a while I mean seventeen years - since I left high school, and some of us have aged well. Others have not. The woman who delivered my books had not. She looked as if she had lived a number of hard years, with her face too thin, her skin stretched too tightly across her chin and cheeks. It's the face that drug abusers, street people and mental patients get after a while. I wonder if she saw in my expression the deterioration of her looks, and the uneven movements of time in our respective features. I'm hoping not. I'm hoping that one of us isn't sitting around hours later thinking about it. I'm going to go read me some fresh Proust.