In abandoned rooms the gramophone is playing. I'm in the old room with the plaster walls. And in my dream where I had expected to find flowers there are no flowers growing.
To have something is eventually to lose it. Therefore anything you currently possess, and love or cherish, will one day be lost to you, causing regret. Regret upon regret. This is a bitter truth, perhaps a banal one.
You will lose friends, good times, loves. Nothing quantifiable, perhaps an atmosphere. But you'll know when you've lost it. It will strike you with a dreadful suddenness, as you stand at night in some bathroom somewhere.
And with it, a pang of old, foul regret.
Death should be like a flower opening. If only death were as certain as one and one are two, like a button being pressed, a light being flicked off. Instead death is shifting and gradual, a long process. The process begins exactly when you realise a part of you has been obliterated and is lost. You are already beginning to rot when you realise: There is no possibility of connection. When that thought is engendered, death begins to creep in.
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