These foolish things (will) The list is a pretty degraded affair isn't it, still, you liked a list, and, anyway, this a list with no end, merely the beginning of a beginning, not even that, a swirling middle Whisky then, the good stuff, Islay malt, martinis, perfect or otherwise, with a nod to Buddy Boy and the pros from Dover, no asterisks, taken by one's lip being drawn over its surface like a rope over a wet outfield. And crisps, all and any, sent to each other in the library mail, chocolate digestives, tea towels (yours still here), cheese, and gravy, the word. And gravy Meetings, and the hating of them, the only pleasure composing the sentences of despair we'd later exchange, large mugs of tea, small cups of coffee, tangerine rituals, small bursts of citrus. Your notebook. Notebooks. Not looking, for fear of too much uncontrolled smiling Beaches in England, trees, walking. Rain on one's face, riding through it, wet from the waist down (steady), dogs, the reality of them, the daydream. Weather, all of it, any of it, and leaves, snow falling through orange street light, and foxes coming into gardens, waiting for them. No foxes Trains, hearing them going by (such a sad sound), a drink before getting on one, Paddington, the arrivals board And swimming, and coming for a bathe, all water now an echo of The Sacred Lake, an echo of you Baths Baths in the day, steam, the radio, the wireless, early evening June 'Atlanta', Atlanta, I may never go though if I did you'd be with me. 'Fleabag', and the divine Waller-Bridge, and Altman, and Kurosawa. Association and reference wandering an Escher staircase of thinking of, Jason Robards with his feet on the desk, C.C. Baxter and Miss Kubelik, Camille Cottin, she did and does and will Kitson. Kitson and Key. The same play on different nights. Joining each other for an online matinee. But not. Chances missed then, regret And we laughed, and we cried, and we listened to Ben Stokes in his prime, another time, another time. Vic Marks. OBO. Laughing then, crying, and crying with laughter, laughing through tears. Singing, every kitchen disco, Nick, and Nick, Billy B. and Bonnie Prince B., and Robert (PLANT) Somehow we managed to meet, after all that first reel contact, you looking one way, me another, until Cillian on Westminster Bridge, and later you, on Westminster Bridge, waiting, how lucky I was, how privileged, for me All of life it seems, the never ending letter being forever written within two heads, incident and accident having only this purpose - I can tell you this later, oh that's okay then - writing, writing you, these versions of each other, reading you, words back and forth, careful punctuation, titles in italics (though none here), commas give us strength. Saying the thing. And jokes, bad on purpose, apologies in parenthesis, the HONK, did you ever get it? (HONK) Your name in bold You, tautology lurks, you This, still this, it doesn't come close, I don't want it to, and it should be private, for you, ah well Larkin, you're welcome, Kharms, thank you. Amis (M. & K.), Hitchens (C.). Dave. 1079 pages of you, notes and errata Malloy, Malone, that magnificent bastard, how does it end again? Oh. Yes. We will too, strangely, with your help now Grief, its final expression Love no full stops