The hard thing is to die at the right moment, neither too early nor too late. The railway lines lie down in suburbia, beside the semi-detached homes, and the lawns strewn with children’s toys, in that gentle dream of geraniums and supermarkets that takes hold once a certain distance has been reached from the city centre. There is more time here, which means less urgency, and the bees drowsy amongst the purple flowers and the tabby cats pretending to sleep on garage rooves.
And so finding ourselves dying, we move to the periphery, so as to prolong our stay here, till the sea, laps at our ankles.

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