1. I was thinking about death, and couldn’t fathom how it could be the end of consciousness; I was here, alive, aware—how could this awareness just disappear and become as though it had never been? The thought intrigued and puzzled me; the more I tried to imagine what it would be like, the more it eluded me. (I can picture myself here, standing in the garden by the side of the house, looking down Fairfield Drive towards busy Blackpool Road, with the sky and the clouds above and the wind in the hedges and shrubs.)
2. In the part of the front garden round the corner of the house from here, was a hedge and/or a bush; and visible from there were tall trees which lined the railway cutting just beyond the end of Fairfield Drive. When the wind blew, as it was doing this day, the trees and shrubs rustled and the branches swayed; and I was intrigued by this sound and movement. Yet when I took hold of a branch of a bush and shook it, the noise it made wasn’t like the noise the wind made; neither could I generate wind by shaking branches.
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