in my chair

He nursed her, he nursed her, while it lasted - this would aways be true.

No-one should be burdened by me, there are nursing institutions. I fought against institutions all my life. It is right.

At last I can go ahead and publish my

When someone dies, a large scab gets peeled away and mysteriously lost, and the world appears in simpler colours. The emptiness is pleasing in a way. It nags at you that you don't know where the large scab has gone (it's about the size of the slate bed that underlies a snooker table - not quite so much, perhaps). All the nursing, and the unfinished, unsettled conversation, which ends with a question.

that no-one should know the way it was for us. We lived differently enough, we were never in the papers. It was sorry, tawdry, strange. What does it matter that this information cannot be processed? That's only for now. One day among the trillions it may be possible. Throw it all down, tell the stories you don't even understand yourself, the stories you know you distort. Yet, as I write this, the distinctive thing that seemed just a minute ago so essential to preserve about our lives begins to thin out and to swim rapidly away from my gaze. Was it all in my head?