This is how it is when you miss someone who is away for a brief time. And it is a foreshadow of when, for whatever reason, it finally comes to an end. It feels strange to think that the best possible of such ends is a far off death, strange to think in those terms at all. And I hear the echoes of those thinkers who have advised to pay attention to impermanence, to conjure in the imagination grim portraits of the silence that will come. I try it but find it too hard. It isn’t hard because I can’t imagine it but because I can. The millions of accidental things that, having happened, have no choice but to have happened; fate operating in retrospection. The millions of things that could bring the distance back on itself, cancelling out the distinction between now and the time of inevitability. I’d rather every star burn up, every life wither. It is a strange emotion that we call love; to everything but it’s inspiration it conceals a brutality, a terrible violence. I am noticing the time now. 02:39. I have been writing all night and I’m tired. In the morning I will write more and still be tired. In the interstice my consciousness will evaporate and I will have the tranquillity of a Zeno or a Buddha, never remembering my sleeping dreams. I re-read what I have written here and note that I still haven’t quite captured what I mean. Language always seems to fail inside of its successes.