Written on the Soul H.M.D. 1928-1958 A July winter among the drab Scots stone, rain squalls, southerly buster; icy nodes scour my face. But you feel nothing. I look down at your stillness, your last smile, but your eyes are closed. You do not see me. Everything gone. You were already far away when it finally ended. Once you said, ‘It’s slow suffocation, Mikey’, speaking more than you knew, for both of us. Now your eyes are closed. You do not see me. And now, distant in time and place, it grieves me yet again that our days and nights
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