Unable to play any instruments, unable to write anything original, unable to predict the next look, they settled for losing themselves in the packed audiences of intimate concerts.
Ideas came to her mind the way mail arrived in the mailbox.
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One humid summer night, after he had wrapped up a late-night painting session in the basement studio with her brother, he had spied her, the older sister, sleeping on the couch as he exited the bathroom on the main floor, thinking to himself in that unavoidable yet noncommittal pause that she looked like an angel from a Wim Wenders movie if the angels in Wenders' films had slept.
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