Seemed like a good deal more than a few months’ wear & tear in the mirror this morning. Enough to give rather a fright. Interesting how one reverts to type: those long, narrow Balkan faces of the Saints from childhood turned out large-writ destiny now. Lurking inescapably all the while and arrived in quick time suddenly. The earlier form had never appeared for those iconic images. Only the strange, cartoonish figure of young Saint George on his steed, spearing the dragon with his long lance. For all the rest there had been the insurmountable gulf of the aged nobles—Nikola, Vasil, Sava. No correspondence of any kind whatever back in the day; presentations as remote as any of the aliens from far distant galaxies.
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