Marks

If only Bea could see this, he thought.  Every day, provoked by some event or other, he regretted her absence.  It wasn’t a physical yearning–that came and went, and it was at an ebb just now–but rather an uneasy awareness that a huge, complicated phase of his life was passing by, crowded with significant and deeply emotional experiences, none of which Bea was seeing, none of which she was remotely involved in.  And again now: these three great shimmering veils of rain, swirling majestically across the plains towards him: they were indescribable, and he would not describe them, but seeing them would leave a mark on him, a mark that would not be left on her.  

Michel Faber, The Book of Strange New Things

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