It has been said the plays of the late Harold Pinter are noteworthy not only for what the characters say but also for what they leave unsaid. The unspoken says more than the spoken. Eloquent silences, you might say, to use an oxymoron in a positive light.
Yesterday was a bit of a Harold Pinteresque day for me.
The tirade held in check.
A remonstrance reined in.
An inquisition not implemented.
A showdown averted, deferred.
Listing these, I read them and they present themselves as a rather noble and virtuous inventory, though they may just as easily mask cowardice, depression, or lethargy.
And I can't even tell you which is true.
Plus, I'll never know what the other players felt, skating along the merry edges of Lake Superficial, will I?
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