A piece of driftwood. Still here, some days fortunately, some days unfortunately. Life carries on despite it being a lark one day, or a plunge the other day. As Anthony Horowitz said, write one hour a day and you could have a novel within a year. I had one day at a time, and suddenly I had life, despite the fact I the doctors gave me eighteen months, max, to life. So now I just drag my sorry carcass from day to day, still here, queer, mad, bonkers, sad, happy, all sorts. Type, type, each day away waiting the final moment I really will die.