Painting by Egon Schiele. It used to hang above my bed for years. Before that, it used to hang in my cubicle. I would stare at it in the afternoons and wish I could move to a place like that. Berlin had beautiful houses, but it didn’t have the sea. Someday, God willing, it could still happen. I could be like Borges, eating ripe fruit in a garden. Life is, potentially, quite long. There is time enough to eventually escape Manhattan and, as Abhi says, “live in a manse with a balcony overlooking the sea, listen to choirs all the time and eat apple pie and giant wheels of cheese.”
