Somehow, whenever I look down the hall there is a different tone to the sameness of walls, paintings carpets. In the daytime, the rich blues and burgundys sing with joyous intertwining of colors. In the night, they take on the deep mystery of mid-dark.

But lately, there is no inky blue mdnight, no liquid wine laying spilt on rhe floor. The colors have faded and hum with the dust and loss of their silk and wool life.

I don't think I can bear it.