He'd been able to see reasonably well with an extremely thick pair of glasses, but he'd lost these six years ago and since then he'd lived in a confusing landscape distilled to pure color according to season-summer mostly green, winter mostly gray and white-in which blurred figures swam into view and then receded before he could figure out who they were. He couldn't tell if his headaches were caused by straining to see or by his anxiety at never being able to see what was coming, but he did know the situation wasn't helped by the first flute, who had a habit of sighing loudly whenever the seventh guitar had to stop rehearsal to ask for clarification on the score that he couldn't see.
( Emily St. John Mandel )
[ Station Eleven ]
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