The Underground Man

When I am restless, I find I have a proclivity for going in search of the past.

Deprived of our memories we are deprived of our very selves. Without our histories we are vacated. We may walk and talk and eat and sleep but, in truth, we are nobody.

Such colossal potential in the humble pip!

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

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

The only vitality about the poor woman was her tiny chest which pumped laboriously in and out and trawled the room for air.

a tale is remotely worth telling then one might tell it a dozen times.

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

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