A man not so very long gone might have called them angelheaded, every one of them radiant thieves and pickpockets of the dead or almost-alive. They have been closed up in little rooms, singing songs without guitars, but they come down, and sit together laughing for a little while, and sing of stars and nights and long-gone men with misplaced bodies, and the evening begins to blossom into itself all around them.
Do they know that this time, too, will be over soon?