31 August 2004


He looks tiny, almost frail, my boy with the old man's face. These last few months he's made grief into something like a vice, an addiction. I'm alive in here, but all I can do is open my eyes, and every time I do he's caught up in himself. Can't read his expression. His brown eyes are distorted by those cheap sunglasses. I bought him a pair just the same when I let go of that door and broke his nose. Thirty years ago. Now he's had enough grief and it's time to switch me off. Please. Switch it off.