A man’s whole life in a single stanza—what would that be? An arbitrary anecdote
with a half-baked punchline over a pint of lager that dared to turn into a good work
of fiction in the attic of a morgue? Perhaps. But this would imply that it is possible
to live multiple lives as if there were no end at all. An exhausting prospect, indeed.
Fortunately, we have an immeasurable capacity to make every conceivable choice
comfortably trivial. After all, it’s just life, isn’t it?
hidden pilcrow 