I am writing of your death (which is really my death, for every atom belonging to me as well belongs to you) as, in the moral life (green thought in a green shade) you are not indeterminate, not other, but of me—so necessarily you will be of my absence and I of yours.
You never swim out into the same water…but did Heraclitus have it wrong? Shouldn’t death always be the same water? Isn’t it’s moment also the movement of birth? Logically this should be so. Does death have logic? Only in the imagination? “Death was given to man so that he may consider in what position he’d like to be dead…” (Pentti Saarikoski)
I am sad today. Istanbul. Sudan. Syria. I am falling through space. Dark leaves cling to my face.
I scribble notes between the lines. I write: how can he who doesn’t love expect to receive…
If I’m not loving enough than I can’t acknowledge the moral meanings of death which are both civic and spiritual.
Death is never extramundane though we say so, because that’s one of the ingredients of politics and business as usual. Perhaps we should rename the stock markets? Death indexes. I’m certain someone has already thought of this. When thinking of death I’m not wholly original, until…
Death’s impatient brush strokes painted the world. Let us study art history.
Let’s not stand alone and egotistical. Let’s admit the intense moonlight and dance in the night streets.
The heavens turn in silence.
What foolish prose.
I’m certain I’m a bone in a larger body.
I’m certain death mumbles a list of its friends just as I do…