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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