(Listening to Henryk Gorecki's Symphony #3, Op. 36, "Symphony of Sorrowful Songs")
This is a glass of single malt whisky, the most contemplative of drinks. It stands in front of a slice of apricot tree. The man in whose yard that tree stood until 31-odd years ago just passed away this evening. I grew to appreciate the qualities of this sort of whisky when Dad passed away in 1993.
The stark reality that all the grandparents have gone is now standing on top of me with stunning weight. Why does Time have to keep moving? Can't nostalgic, deedless fools like me have a few more decades to figure out what life is all about?
