Morning after the storm, the skies clarify their blue distance and the air briskly suggests that fall approaches. A tall woman speaks Chinese (maybe Cantonese? I can’t tell.) to a toddling girl, who excitedly directs their ramble to the big blue box on the intersection. I notice the child grasps an envelope; the shape is too boxy to be official mail, so it must be a card or a personal letter. They make their way with grace and cutesome teetering. When they get to the intersection the girl points to the box and makes some sound. The woman, probably her mother, nods and lifts her up. Metal thwack and the envelope’s gone. Sunlight across both their faces. The girl’s feet again plopping along the ground, they move onward.
All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. — Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho