Friday, April 06, 2012


Those dried-out things which sit and wait endlessly in the corners of the refrigerator when all else is lost or eaten, those are the things I wish I had kept or catalogued or mourned or buried in decent state — such is the fate of the long-preserved but forgotten soldiers of the last evenings and mornings of the world of men.

I have one last wedge of Stilton entombed in rind, an unlabelled liqueur time out of mind, and you my friend — always you were too kind.

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