Life is our only frame of reference. Death brings an end to everything, including itself.
Words on the page sleep, dreamless as hills - until eye read either, line or land.
Spring drought, and the heaths and woods where I grew up are burning. There is nothing in prospect but more of this: the familiar warping before our eyes. In the hard world coming, we will have to relearn many lost arts - including the art of losing.
The pity of the world lies not in its horror but in the evolution of a mind capable of imagining that things might be otherwise.