ie, and black s are perfect for attending funerals. Every time someone dies, I call  and too big for me.

    “Sorry to bot time I called. “Another funeral’s come up.

    “ be in a  you come over right away?”

    and tie  on table, neatly pressed, ted beer. t’s the kind of guy he is.

    “t at the zoo,” he said, opening a beer.

    “A cat?”

    “Yea asleep in a cage  said ‘Cat.’ “

    “ kind of cat?”

    “Just an ordinary one. Broripes, s tail. And unbelievably fat. It just 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