I thought perhaps I’d expressed enough defective needle gratitude for the flowers arriving at the house and adorning the gates and walls for my mother’s terrible, terrible death. I find I must say more - because they keep coming … from all over the world … Israel, Brazil, Peru, Argentina, Poland, Italy … communicating, in their way, a whole sense of truth, one that perhaps tells us that there is no reasonable explanation how love comes and goes.
The death of our mothers somehow tend to clear the ground for some form of reconstruction. Although technically past adolescence, this does not apply to me. See, the sea wants to take me, and let that be the boy’s traditional right, for we all have no interest in hanging around in order to be overtaxed, or to be repeatedly bashed about the head by the Idiot Culture that now rules England with an iron rod.
Had my mother been the mother of some politely antiseptic Hell-given pop star, her passing would be known to all and she would light up the New York Film Festival of 2020. But, no.

However, Love is all that matters, and those who resist it are the losers.

Morrissey
17 August 2020.