Bruce: Oh, who would have thought we'd be here when we were sloshing around the pool at the Raj.

Bruce: You had a pool? It was a puddle in the road for us!

Bruce: You had a puddle? We used to spit in our bureaus!

Bruce: Bureau? We had a paper sack in the puddle in the road!

Bruce: Oh, we used to dream of our own paper sack in the road!

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But since they're literary types it's probably more like writing their own funeral poem. There's got to be at least a little consolation in self-describing, even (especially?) the painful stuff. It's why poets are always going on about their own passings, why Tennyson wanted his anthologies to all end with "Crossing the Bar" - if I can't avoid it at least I can tell everyone about it so that, technically, what I say still goes, even in this.

And since it's Sunday and I'm waxing poetical and this post is called "The Media is Dying," here is a fave from Michael Field:

Lo, my loved is dying, and the call

Is come that I must die,

All the leaves are dying, all

Dying, drifting by.

Every leaf is lonely in its fall,

Every flower has its speck and stain;

The birds from hedge and tree

Lisp mournfully,

And the great reconciliation of this pain

Lies in the full soft rain.

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