However, Withered, I Still Feel Myself To

What Is It Precisely, That Feeling Of 'returning' From A Poem? Something Is Lighter, Softer, Larger - Then It Fades, But Never Completely.

None Of Us Really Either Know The Circumstances Of Our Death Or Are Likely To Exert As Much Control Over It As We Would Like To, But We Can Certainly Have A Little More Say In It If We Are Terminally Ill Than We Have At The Moment. That's The Element Of Dignity, But Sure, Life Is Very Hard To Organise Even When You Are Fit And Healthy.

I've Yet To Meet Somebody Who Said, 'your Stories Are So Revolting I Couldn't Read Them.'

Let His Name Be Cleared And Everyone Else Adjust Their Thinking. He Had Put In Time, Now They Must Do The Work. His Business Was Simple. Find Cecilia And Love Her, Marry Her And Live Without Shame.

I Read In Announcements Of Deaths 'peacefully In His Sleep' And I Wonder How Many Of Those Are True. Maybe They Are Just Conventional. I Hope They Are True Whenever I Read It Of Someone. [but] I Would Rather Be Awake. Peacefully Awake, Brim Full Of Some Calming Drug That Was Seeing Me Out Of The Door, Having Said My Farewells.