The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

How do you manage it, she said, at your age? I told her I'd been saving up for her all my life.

I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.