He wrote something terrific (page
2,400) to the memory of a suicide,
oddly enough. About monsters. So
effective! And in the end close their
eyes a final time close our eyes. At
least I think it was him (vibrating thru
the hum of two trains grooving beside
each other in the mid-afternoon). West
Texas sunlight through a bit of a haze.
And who can blame him now?
[I]n the future the reference will be worth-
less. The music of this jazz (the elders of
Amtrak arranged neatly in the dining car;
we’re not allowed to rise and go our own
ways until we’ve passed a test recollecting
each and every warning sign) originates
from New Orleans. And from Abilene. And
Saint Louis and South Bend with the
grandkids swing-dancing in San Francisco....
