There are many things I have aspired to be in this life. Perfect isn’t one of them.
At this particular moment I am lying in a pool of my own blood and shit somewhere near London Bridge, seconds from death. My aspirations have more or less dropped to zero, I would say. It feels fine.
I’ve been looking for this place, this time, since I can remember. I have been on my feet, walking lost, in search of it for many years. Now here I am at last.
There has been a promise made to me that in the instant I cease to struggle, stop panting like a dog in the sun and just let go, that I will become perfect – and, more than death itself, this idea terrifies me! The peace that I have found by coming to this end – the effort of a long, long journey - is shattered by the over-whelming burden of infinity which awaits. Yet here I am, beckoned by comfort. The oblivion I believed in and hoped for will not be mine... I can actually see the tunnel; I begin to drift along it, losing taxis and street lamps and brick and rain and dirt and shame and guilt and fear piece by piece – I can feel myself becoming perfect.
And I think: “So let’s begin...”