Mourning the passing of life slowly each day, I move nearer towards death each day like cracked glass which grows larger each day, ticking in silent echoes haunted by an ever-haunted spectre and stone-written realities.

Reflecting on my mortality every Saturday, I drink wine from two glasses like a persistent inquiry and read Paul Celan as Death draws us nearer in a binding brightness trusting the week ahead less and less constantly seeking new reality.