I'm A Hopeless 19th-century Romantic.

These Days I Must Take The World In Small And Carefully Measured Doses. It Is A Sort Of Homeopathic Cure I Am Undergoing, Though I Am Not Certain What This Cure Is Meant To Mend. Perhaps I Am Learning To Live Amongst The Living Again. Practising, I Mean. But No, That Is Not It. Being Here Is Just A Way Of Not Being Anywhere.

A Man Is Not Much If He Can't Depend On Himself, And Nothing If Others Can't Depend On Him.

He Knows That After Him Everything Will Continue On Much As Before, Except That There Will Be A Minuscule Absence, A Barely Detective Gap In The So-called Grand Scheme, One Unit Fewer Now. Or Not Even That, Not Even An Empty Space Where He Once Was, For All Will Rush Immediately To Fill That Vacuum. Pft. Gone. Recollections Of Him Will Remain In The Minds Of Others For A While, But Presently Those Others Too Will Die And His Few Relics With Them. And Then All Will Be Dark.

I Think I'm Less The Writer Than I'm The Written.

How Flat All Sounds Are At The Seaside, Flat And Yet Emphatic, Like The Sound Of Gunshots Heard At A Distance.