These are the days I will cherish in the years to come. These passing days, when the clouds gather over the hills and the brook in the valley is louder, silver, bright and louder still. I hear it in my imagination.  Long ago I took the kids to the top of the opposite hill, and how I hated being there.  I wanted to be by the sea. These passing days, the bee-keeper, he tapes polystyrene rectangles to the hives.  He cares for each and every one of his half a million bees.  Once, I told him, a swarm came into the house and there they all died.  Bees lay everywhere, a mass suicide, an Armageddon. These passing days, I drink strong coffee and read long novels. I try and compose the piece of music I have somewhere in mind, but I never quite find it.  I watch too much football and wonder if I can keep going on like this. Winter scares me. But then so does every season. There is no escape.  Sometimes I play music so loud the windows rattle. I do it because I can, no one complains, there’s no one for miles. I play Tristan, or some visceral dub.  I eat turkey sandwiches and flick grapes across the kitchen for the cat to chase.


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