The Ways In Which A Book, Once

We Live On The Flat, On The Level, And Yet - And So - We Aspire. Groundlings, We Can Sometimes Reach As Far As The Gods. Some Soar With Art, Others With Religion; Most With Love. But When We Soar, We Can Also Crash. There Are Few Soft Landings. We May Find Ourselves Bouncing Across The Ground With Leg-fracting Force, Dragged Towards Some Foreign Railway Line. Every Love Story Is A Potential Grief Story. If Not At First, Then Later. If Not For One, Then For The Other. Sometimes, For Both.

People In Love, It Is Well Known, Suffer Extreme Conceptual Delusions, The Most Common Of These Being That Other People Find Your Condition As Thrilling And Eye-watering As You Do Yourselves.

Time...give Us Enough Time And Our Best-supported Decisions Will Seem Wobbly, Our Certainties Whimsical.

Nature Is So Exact, It Hurts Exactly As Much As It Is Worth, So In A Way One Relishes The Pain. If It Didn't Matter, It Wouldn't Matter.

Was It The Case That Colours Dimmed As The Eye Grew Elderly? Or Was It Rather That In Youth Your Excitement About The World Transferred Itself Onto Everything You Saw And Made It Brighter?