Death, you’re more successful than America, br even if we don’t choose to join you, we do. br I’ve just become aware of this conscription br where no one’s marble doesn’t come up; br no use carving your name on a tree, exchanging vows br or not treading on the cracks for luck br where there’s no statistical anomalies at all br & you know not the day nor the hour, or even if you do br timor mortis conturbat me. No doubt we’d br think this in a plunging jet & the black box recorder br would note each individual, unavailing scream br but what gets me is how compulsory it is— br ‘he never was a joiner’ they wrote on his tomb. br At least bingeing becomes heroic & I can see br why the Victorians br so loved drawn out death-bed scenes: br huddled before our beautiful century, they knew br what first night nerves were all about.