The Wistful Grid
October 12, 1998 The lead cames are shifting again, or perhaps it is only the fatigue settling into the joints of my eyes, but I cannot shake the feeling that the grid of the north transept is breathing. I am forty-two years old, and my hands, which have held hot solder and delicate glass for three decades, tremble with a vibration that has nothing to do with the heat of the torch. The workshop...
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