There are too many years around this table, too much time confined in one place.

My pains, sometimes seem like witch hunters: confess, confess, confess. Like a heavy stone on my rib-cage.Confess to what?And, of course, I would confess, if only I knew what it was they wanted to hear.

Perhaps it's impolite to die so flippantly, after all she's done for me.

You hear about ghosts: sad ghosts, angry ghosts.I'll tell you, the worst is when they laugh, and the worst sort are the ones whose faces I've forgotten.

Is the undertaker joyous when his turn comes around? All those years holding the door open. To pass through - does it feel like a privileged?