Post 508. SORRY, DYLAN.

 I'M HOPING TO GO GENTLE

INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
I'm sick to death of raging
At this world's sorry plight.
Mr. Thomas was a wordsmith who drank a lot. Had we ever met I doubt we would have liked each other. But he was a one-off, and I admired that. He would probably only have conversed with me if he thought I was good for a drink. I admired John Betjeman's gently humorous verse, too, though always thought there had to be something awry with the lifelong lover of a teddy bear: he would never have glanced in my direction anyway: he liked men with titles and girls with double-barrelled names. It's a funny old world. Have I said that before? (Imagine the shrug.)
I have just been through a series of tests at our sole remaining hospital, hence the thoughts on kicking the bucket. Dr' Osman, my oncologist, rang last Friday to say the cancer still looks to be in one place - not spread - and he will speak to me again in a fortnight when he has discussed my future treatment with his colleagues. I wish him well with that.
Death comes to us all. Physically losing touch with Mo, the family, and our few remaining friends will be my only regret at going; the big sleep doesn't bother me. I have no belief in an afterlife. Look how crowded it would be. Billions of spirits jostling for the ether. Ugh!
I have no fear of ending up in some overcrowded land of perfection or perdition, either. Gods and devils are fictional characters. I might get a surprise, but I doubt it. 

And nothing could ever surprise me more than the gullibility of the human race.
UK NATIONAL ELECTION/
Gets more like America every day.

Whichever of this pair gets in

Don't expect miracles. Don't expect the truth.

Did you ever?