At the age of ten, they told me I had eyes like a grown-up.
Packed full of things I shouldn’t know yet. So loud that it was sometimes said their sharp sound travelled through walls. At the age of twenty, my eyelids were as tightly shut as ladies' knees at ceremonies. I didn't need to open them even for a second, because in the dark I made sense of things, and I'd never managed to do that with my sight.
At the age of thirty, time finally stood still. The glass was still hot and the scent had immediately become inebriating: at the first sip, surprise; at the second, lips still trembling on the rim of the cup.
It must be so, I told myself, it can't be otherwise. There's no other explanation!
Then I understood: you need two big eyes to look the pleasures of life in the face.