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 at t someto shave again.

    A man’s deat ty-eiger rain.

    During t ths, four more people died.

    One died in Marc at an oil field in Saudi Arabia or Ku, and ttack and a traffic accident. From July to November t ther friend died, also in a car crash.

    Unlike my first friend, o realize t t aircase times before and suddenly finding a step missing.

    “ould you make up t attack ure designer. It  nine, o tc. But t ake a nap,”  o sleep, and never woke up again.

    t, and t