I would hate to be the one holding the trowel, Pompeii, chipping off those meters-deep layers of time over time and exposing to air what you have carefully preserved, what you have sensibly kept away from wear and tear: those soft immeasurable words murmured that winter morning by the lake somewhere in Tasmania.

When you wake up, your first spoken words are always the truth.

And I remain hopeful, Pompeii, that truth is insusceptible or at least less prone to sudden rupture, and mood swings, and fearful accusations. When the ash rains down from the sky, I remain hopeful that those words will find a jar to safely seal themselves into.

And if they don’t — if they find themselves covered indefinitely beneath molten rock in a poignant embrace — at least they will be complete and permanent like a wise agonising poem.

All you need to do is read it slowly, carefully.