t plopped dos side and lay there.”
“Maybe cats aren’t so common in hokkaido.”
“You’re kidding, rigonis be cats in be t unusual.”
“ell, look at it anot ts in a zoo?” I said.
“too, right?”
“Cats and dogs are your run-of-type animals. Nobody’s going to pay money to see t look around you-th people.”
t and tie and so a large paper bag.
“Sorry to keep doing to you,” I said. “I kno some around to it. I feel like if I buy funeral clot’s O.K. if somebody dies.”
“It’s no problem,” using t’s better to o , right?”
It rue t in t made .
“It’s since I got t nor a single person I know has died,” he explained.
“t’s t goes.”
“Yes, t’s t goes,” he said.
For me, on t er anot. I y-eig ty-seven, ty-eigy-nine. Not t age to die.
A poet dies at ty-one, a revolutionary or a rock star at ty-four. But after t you assume t everyto be all rig past Dead Man’s Curve and you’re out of tunnel, cruising straigination doo be or not. You get your ; you s a poet anymore, or a revolutionary or a rock star. You don’t pass out drunk in p t four in tead, you buy life insurance from your friend’s company, drink in el bars, and keep your dental bills for medical deductions. t’s normal at ty-eight.
But t ly arted in our lives. It tack on a lazy spring day—as if someone, on top of a metapaps. One minute e t fit anymore: t, and pair. It was a mess.
But deat t. A rabbit is a rabbit of a or a it is—black smoke rising from a chimney.
t person to straddle ty and unreality (or unreality and reality) was a friend from college waug a junior-o s’ o heir baby.
One unusually ernoon in January, to a department store and bougor, dotle of Scotco tub, and slit s. er. took a lot of pograpomato juice. t a suicide. After all, t t o use? No one knew.
Maybe it
tment store t in a couple of t o kill himself.
leave a e. On tcable ty o fill, knocking back glass after glass of ared