I was in my thirties before I learnt that I too would prefer not to see what I could no longer have

It's sadness coming on like the old days, the vast seamless hopeless weight of sadness looking for a place to rest.

And you can't help but worry for them, love them, want for them - those who go on down the close, foetid galleries of time and space without you.

And the sun on the wall of her room, the block of sun with all the tiny flying things in it. When she was little she thought they were the souls of dead insects, still buzzing in the light.

Hunting and gathering are in my blood. But I've lived long enough to witness a diminution in the seas, and to notice a fragility where once I saw - or assumed - an endless bounty.

Surviving is the strongest memory I have; the sense of having walked on water.

Being afreaid proves you're alive and awake.