In Old Age, You Realise That While

You Learn A Lot, Writing Fiction.

And In Another Year Everything Will Be Different Yet Again. It Is Always Like That, And Always Will Be; You Are Forever Standing On The Brink, In A Place Where You Cannot See Ahead; There Is Nothing Of Which To Be Certain Except What Lies Behind. This Should Be Terrifying, But Somehow It Is Not.

I Am Addicted To Arrivals, To Those Innocent Dawn Moments From Which History Accelerates.

Grief-stricken. Stricken Is Right; It Is As Though You Had Been Felled. Knocked To The Ground; Pitched Out Of Life And Into Something Else.

We Open Our Mouths And Out Flow Words Whose Ancestries We Do Not Even Know. We Are Walking Lexicons. In A Single Sentence Of Idle Chatter We Preserve Latin, Anglo-saxon, Norse: We Carry A Museum Inside Our Heads, Each Day We Commemorate Peoples Of Whom We Have Never Heard.