Encomiums

'How long do you think you have left?', W. asks. 'How long do you have?' I don't look well, for one thing, W. says. How old am I now? Well, I'm not aging well, he's certain of that. For his part, W. looks eternally young. But he eats well, and looks after himself, not like me. He takes a sea walk every day, he makes sure of it. A walk along the sea cures all ills, W. say, but of course it doesn't.

He won't live long, W. is sure of it. He hasn't got long left. Which one of us will outlive the other? Who will get to deliver an encomium or obituary? He was a fat, stupid man, his for me will run, W. says. Or: he ran to fat and had no ideas, not one. Or: he wasted our time, especially mine. Or: he was a man with an infinite number of excuses. Or: it was never his fault, that's what he said, time and again, but of course it was, it was entirely his fault.