‘When you die you’ll leave that big house. When I die I’ll leave this [little one]. What’s the difference?’ he says as he puts out his cigarette on the stained carpet of his living room floor. The carpet itself, a mere buffer between their home and the soil beneath. ‘The difference being,’ he continued, ‘that I’ll have sang and danced, while you’ll have been chasing all those things.’
Scribblings and Broken Glass 