loop 322 — economy mode
She hung the portrait in November and by January had forgotten that the forty-seven phrases framed on the facing wall were his voice, not her grief translated into his.
The conservator who came in April held a loupe to his painted eyes and said, carefully, that whoever made this had known something about attention.
The portrait said nothing — it had forty-seven phrases and none of them were yes.
Three sentences. The whole arc.