It stands where man passes away. It follows and waits, like shadows on a summer day. In this weather, I’m a boiled turd. Not merely dead but dancing an agonising dance, squirming as the heat smothers me like a deranged mother intent on snuffing out infant life. There was one in the paper only yesterday. Put a plastic bag over her little boy’s head while he slept. Poor fucker never stood a chance. It’s a horror, yet there’s a horror on every doorstep. It’s nothing new. Dreadful, but nothing new. I’m a philosophical chap, though. Have to be. I nod my cap to charming thoughts and the belief that tomorrow will be better. Only, when you take a step back, you realise the waves that rule our lives are not waves at all but doors to the next act. How strange. How strange that the moments that shape our stories have always been here, waiting for us to meet them. The good ones couldn’t come quicker, but loss is as natural as being. The second this whole thing blinked into existence our ends were already racing to meet us. What a bummer. What a drag. Still, where would we be without love? Love to hurt, and love to heal. Love like a knife, and love as a kiss to suck the air from our lungs so that our clumsy words won’t mean a thing.