“Too many of my friends are dead, and others wrecked By various diseases of the intellect Or failing body. How am I still upright? And even I sleep half the day, cough half the night. How did it come to this? How else but through The course of years, and what its workings do To wood, stone, glass and almost all the metals, Smouldering already in the fresh rose petals. Our energy deceived us. Blessed with the knack To get things done, we thought to get it back Each time we lost it, just by taking breath — And some of us are racing yet as we face death. Well, good to see you. Sorry I have to fly. I’m struggling with a deadline, God knows why, And ghosts keep interrupting. Think of me The way I do of you. Quite often. Constantly.” Clive JamesWe Being Ghosts Author:Clive James