Your weathered face has me drying, prying at my eyes. I see your love, I see your life gone by. 

"Bellow had already conceived of a novel about a duplicitous marriage. (Perhaps on some level he knew?) But now Bellow had his material in all its incredible salaciousness, and he did not hesitate to use his life (nor the lives of others) in his fiction."  

I once wrote a story, 7,000 words strong, about a girl named Flora and her failed relationship. The inevitable, the doomed. Perhaps on some level, I knew too.