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No matter what you do, you're going to learn the truth
There were two girls waiting for the bus last night when I left the theater, against a concrete wall in the dirty sodium light. I didn't have a camera on me and I couldn't have gotten them in those orange-peel shadows and the flash of passing cars, but I can't write about them without making them sound like chess pieces or a Tarot card. I should have had a better view of the girl on the left; she reflected more—white skirt, short-sleeved linen blouse, a straight fall of peroxide-platinum hair. The one on the right could have been posing, except that I also slouch against walls with just my shoulders and gravity; the streetlight made her hair as black as her tank-top, a two-tone illustration, the same color as her cargo pants. I don't know their relation to one another. I thought they were talking, but I didn't hear anything said. I want them to be daimons of the city, one of those pictures that says everything about a time. They were probably students.
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I should think they could be both, myself.
After all, daimons must have their student days; I doubt they're taught so much that's directly useful to doing their jobs, but the experience of being students will be important to them in some ineffable fashion, and think of how many contacts they'd be able to make.
Or, to put it more prosaically, many folk will serve the role of daimon for a moment in someone else's experience.
Tis pity you weren't able to get a photograph, but you've drawn a fine picture of them in words, and I thank you for sharing it.
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Hand off the numinous, turn by turn . . .
Thank you.
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Exactly. I like this line, by the way.
Thank you.
You're welcome.