How sad, pitiful, yes, worthy of pity…this phantom tale of my life that longs to outlive its pages, walk free, and so it looks for itself here, there, in every real thing, envious, hoping against hope to re-nature itself, be reforged a real thing too, out of time.
Walking through a really interesting museum with my little boy, we pass a man in a wheelchair, very elderly, frail, skin taut, being pushed around the exhibits by his carer. An old bus, perfect condition, double-decker, seems to grab all of our attentions at the same time; from different points on a compass, we converge there. And here we are, for these few moments, poised, balancing on something we cannot see. So close to death he is, no next chapter for him; it is all he can do to stay with us, in our makeshift gang of four, looking at the immaculate, garage-green paintwork on this beauty.
I am the day.