Here we are then, here we are now. Here we are, notes from a suicide. And he will never ever be the greatest living Englishman. It's such a melancholy blue or a grey of no significance. Plastic coated surfaces, a space to place his suitcase as he's passed from A to B. But it's such a melancholy blue. The curtains round the bed are drawn, broadcast voices from the ward. The humming of machines are heard, but there are distances between. Yes, there are distances between. His aspirations visited him nightly and amounted to so little. Too much self in his writing. Now he will never ever be the greatest living Englishman. The engine shifts into second gear. They're all aboard accounted for. It's a journey he must make alone. The black sheep boy is leaving home. It's been rehearsed a thousand times or more. He is well prepared, of that is sure. But still it's such a melancholy blue. He's erased a page of history, just as he had intended to. He wouldn't speak or show you he was happy, though you'd meet him with your eyes. There was a wall that always stood between you. He'd shut himself outside. And the love that he engendered would never be enough for him to feel alive, warm and tender. He'd shut himself outside. Not a fake nor a sham, but dug in deep and fighting. The world could not embrace a man with so much self in his writing. And he was never gonna be the greatest living Englishman. He had ideas above his station. Minor virtues go unmentioned. Little England, you fit like a straight-jacket hemmed by the genius of others. He said, to conquer the world is not to leave a trace. Remove even the shadow of the memory of your face. A grey of no significance. He'd shut himself outside. And the love that he engendered would never be enough for him to feel alive, warm and tender. The world could not embrace a man with so much self in his writing. He'd shut himself outside. Not a fake nor a sham, but dug in deep and fighting. The world could not embrace a man with so much self in his writing. © transcript Emily Beynon