George looks around.
He sees the park.
It is depressing.
George looks ahead.
George sees the dark.
George feels afraid.
Where are the people out strolling on Sunday?
It was marvelous to know you, and it isn’t really through. Crazy business this, this life we live in—don’t complain about the time we’re given. With so little to be sure of in this world, we had a moment, a marvelous moment . . .
George is afraid. George sees the park. George sees it dying. George, too may fade, leaving no mark, just passing through, just like the people out strolling on Sunday . . .
There are worse things than staring at the water as you're posing for a picture after sleeping on the ferry after getting up at seven to come over to an island in the middle of a river half an hour from the city on a Sunday.