"......No longer the core of each other’s waking (or sleeping) hours." ~ from here

... and so the days are given to a travelogue of insignificances - that they were born, that they lived in that house once, loved and were on occasion loved back - none of this a cause for a tragedy - barely a squeak under the great whirling wheel of time (or as revolutionaries would have it, Historical Imperative) - yet

how would it be, if the arts of memory were denied to them? And they couldn't mourn those faces that must have changed, or all those completely forgotten? Or even worse stay up late in the nights, not able to hear loved voices, in the far distance, singing softly, what appear to be dirges or lullabies?