All Plots Tend To Move Deathward. This

People Hurried Past, The Others Of The Street, Endless Anonymous, Twenty-one Lives Per Second, Race-walking In Their Faces And Pigments, Sprays Of Fleetest Being.

When I Read Obituaries I Always Note The Age Of The Deceased. Automatically I Relate This Figure To My Own Age. Four Years To Go, I Think. Nine More Years. Two Years And I'm Dead. The Power Of Numbers Is Never More Evident Than When We Use Them To Speculate On The Time Of Our Dying.

May The Days Be Aimless. Do Not Advance Action According To A Plan.

I'd Like To Lose Interest In Myself.

They Passed Out Of The Shade Beneath The Eaves And Flew Into Sunglare And Silence And It Was An Action She Only Partly Saw, Elusive And Mutely Beautiful, The Birds So Sunstruck They Were Consumed By Light, Disembodied, Turned Into Something Sheer And Fleet And Scatter-bright.