I have a friend who finds the difference between a poet and a non-poet is that the poet thinks of death all the time. don't know exactly if this quite matches because we all at some time in our lives become acutely aware of our lives being finite, really short even, really, really short.

even a long life goes by so fast to the individual. reading a few obits online last night about Thom Gunn I found he died in his sleep, apparently a heart attack was the cause of death. and I realized that he died the death we all, at least I do, want to die: in bed after a long full life beside someone you love.

and yet, 74 is not so long a time to live. I was born in the Summer of Love and I can't believe time for me has moved so quickly, and even quicker still.

and so without irony my word for the day: carpefuckingdiem.