She had certain thoughts which were like companions, ideas which were like older and wiser friends.

Ideas came swarming through her, and like many people who labour in the obsession of solitude, she lacked the detachment to challenge them.

The idea hovered and shimmered delicately, like a soap bubble, and she dared not even look at it directly in case it burst. But she was familiar with the way of ideas, and she let it shimmer, looking away, thinking about something else.

And she knew it was time to start getting the images of dead things out of her mind. Or at least, to bury them a while.

It was one of those moments when the pre-birth stirrings of a ghastly idea are huddled and swaddled in an ominous silence. Certain thoughts, that have been long nurtured in deep half-conscious brooding, manifest themselves, when they finally emerge into the light, with a horrid tangibility that is like the impact of something physically shocking. And into this warm,

She was trying to feel philosophical about dying, not managing it, trying not to be frightened, and not managing that, either.