Passages in Imperfection - I

Perhaps there was some deep sadness in their life. A marriage that writhed and seared like a wound of the diabetic. Destined to fester, but never quite devouring the flesh that marks its borders, held together against the ravages of infection by the ancient mechanics of propriety and passing memories of long-deceased passion. Perhaps he fell. She forgave. She sunk. He saved. They may have laboured in the delusions brought on by some Sisyphus cycle of combined struggles with each other, finding fulfillment in the daily task of doling out hate in tiny measures, treading everyday on their growing mountain of regret.