I just came back from someone's funeral, a colleague really, and the whole evening I've been here in my armchair, just checking my pulse, obsessively, like it's a diagnostic test for something much bigger than just a heartbeat. The thrumming in my wrist, it feels like a meter of all the things I didn't say, the chances missed, the way time just keeps moving here in this city, relentlessly, and it’s a strange kind of grief, isn’t it—this awareness of my own finite duration, suddenly so SHARP. Like I’m waiting for the next tremor.