You reach a point in novels when you think, “Things wil be so different after this, how will this book go on? How can it possibly continue and still be the same book?”
But they do go on.

I am at the point in my life right now. I cannot conceive of a life after tomorrow. My imagination, limited at best, screeches to a halt now as it considers not just the future, but also the past. Because I can’t remember his face, even though it was just days ago that I saw him. What I would remember is what I would see without my glasses: a blur of colour, a vague impression.

And the present is a blankness. Not a deadness, because that denotes a weight, a heaviness, an existence. This, the now, is a lack of. Of reconciliation between the everyday and the mundanely unexpected, between the private and the screechingly public, between loyalty and loyalty.