Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword,
But where are the snows of yester-year?

François Villon
Where Are the Snows (1461)

In the morning I'll have to see us in the mirror, another mirror, another hotel, I'll be fifty-five, he'll be thirty and eager, nothing we've said can be erased, the sun will photograph the skin of my arm, a map of microscopic rifts and valleys, and we'll quarrel mildly and go down to breakfast, an older woman and her sulky young lover...

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