After All, When You Come

An Ordinary Mirror Is Silvered At The Back But The Window Of The Night Train Has Darkness Behind The Glass. My Face And The Faces Of Other Travellers Were Now Mirrored On This Darkness In A Succession Of Stillnesses. Consider This, Said The Darkness: Any Motion At Any Speed Is A Succession Of Stillnesses; Any Section Through An Action Will Show Just Such A Plane Of Stillness As This Dark Window In Which Your Seeking Face Is Mirrored. And In Each Plane Of Stillness Is The Moment Of Clarity That Makes You Responsible For What You Do.

Time's Arrow, We Are Told, Is A One-way Thing. . . Memory's Arrow, Like The Needle Of A Compass Too Close To A Lodestone, Spins In All Directions.

An Idea Is An Eye Given By God For The Seeing Of God. Some Of These Eyes We Cannot Bear To Look Out Of; We Blind Them As Quickly As Possible.

Too-lateness, I Realized, Has Nothing To Do With Age. It’s A Relation Of Self To The Moment. Or Not, Depending On The Person And The Moment. Perhaps There Even Comes A Time When It’s No Longer Too Late For Anything. Perhaps, Even, Most Times Are Too Early For Most Things, And Most Of Life Has To Go By Before It’s Time For Almost Anything And Too Late For Almost Nothing. Nothing To Lose, The Present Moment To Gain, The Integration With Long-delayed Now.

I'll Never Retire. They'll Have To Take My Computer Out Of My Cold, Dead Hands. I'm Addicted To Writing. I Feel Physically Unwell If I'm Not Doing It.