When considered against the backdrop of eternity the period between our birth and death is the shortest of trajectories.

It is fascinating to speculate, is it not, on how the word generally gets about.

in each dark little teardrop is the makings of a tree.

a tree from a pip! – which one day, many years hence, may produce pippy apples of its own.

‘Every Wingèd Thing’,

the gradual revelation of one’s body as nothing more than a bag of unshakeable aches.

the ingredients put me more in mind of gunpowder than any medicine,

Nothing in the world moves at half the speed as a rumour with the scent of scandal to it.

The world, one might say, is nothing more than a vast burial ground on which we briefly picnic.