I have before me little things
These little things, they fill my day
But sometimes they fall short
They fail to satisfy or sustain
Tonight I lay them before me
And I pray that they are enough
For I fear I may be foolish
And forget that I am an island.
"Yes, Clarissa thinks, It's time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep - It's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more. "
The Hours by Michael Cunningham