The singular human experience, as far as I can tell, is:
liquid mercury romance sloshing around your mouth and your chest; texts from your estranged father telling you about cereal bars on mega discount that you simply cannot miss out on; illnesses and worthy recuperations, or, often, death; rot and decay with no regrowth, salted; complete, brilliant resplendency; exams finished and failed; waking up with the driest mouth you never thought possible; pristine adoration of tiny, frangible objects who call your name still, years after you set them down for the final time, and only now in retrospect you add so much weight to that moment, wishing you could remember and had said goodbye properly; putrid, overfilled ashtrays, proving loaves of sodden ash; ghosts of childhood birthday parties, cheap cake overtaking all other artefacts in the race to remember; pure sunlight, annunciated through a dirty window; cormorants making so much unexpected noise; cardigans and coats stolen from the nightclub banquette; falling and scraping your knees a lot less when you’re all grown up; an omnibus of micro miseries, of embarrassments to take to the grave or, more likely, to Twitter; a frogmarch to the grave with the biggest, shit-eatingest grin of 100% love for every single person who has ever existed and who will learn to exist still.