y-four, like a revolutionary or a rock star. One cold rainy evening just before Cmas, stened in tragic yet quite ordinary space betruck and a concrete telephone pole.

    A feer t funeral, I  to my friend’s apartment to return t, le of hank him.

    “Muc once again,” I said.

    As usual, able sofa reflected a faint ray of sunligable tray and a pot of Cmas poinsettias.

    ed t, in its plastic covering, s leisurely—like t coming our of ion—and quietly put it away.

    “I  doesn’t smell like a funeral,” I said.

    “Clot important. t’s inside them.”

    “Um,” I said.

    “One funeral after anotretc on to a glass. “ogether?”

    “Five,” I said, spreading out t  I t’s got to be it.”

    “Are you sure?”

    “Enough people have died.”

    “It’s like t someil enougar appears in the sun.

    After ed on ter sunligly into the room.

    “You look a little glum these days,” he said.

    “Really?” I said.

    “You must be t too muc,” opped t t night.”

    “?”

    “ depressed, I start to clean. Even if it’s tove, mop toill I’m exed, to sleep. In t up and by time I’m putting on my socks I can’t even remember  .”

    I looked around again. As alhe room was clean and orderly.

    “People t t’s  our own way of fig off”

    “You’re probably right,” I said.

    “Even animals t 3 A.M.,” o a zoo at 3 A.M.?”

    “No,” I ans.”

    “I’ve only done it once. A friend of mine  a zoo, and I asked o let me in  supposed to, really.”