From outside in I glimpse a form, a shadow an arm lifted in the timeless task of combing and think of spinning straw to gold, of an ancient Celt plaiting her jeweled head of a glamor girl grooming for competition. From inside out a face presses gazing - blank with sorrow? boredom? joy? while curtains stir in high drama or low comedy a lamp is lighted a plant blooms - all evidence that the pattern life persists.