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: When my sister dies, I think it is a big mistake. Almost everything that happens to me is a mistake. It makes life very un[but somehow very]predictable. When she is dead for only about a half an hour, on a bright september day, i am driving upwind, up the highway. She is dead and it is only a half an hour, since i have spoken to her, since i said those things to her like wrenches lying out in the sun. the car scrapes like old black leather through valiant leaves and i pay little or no attention to the speed of the car as it climbs stealthily up the highway. It is all a big mistake i am rushed i make a decision, the wrong decision. i turn the car around and say, now let�s think about this, let�s just talk about this a little, but this time i can�t. She says No, it�s too late i am deadand you killed me. God damn it I say and clench inwards squeezing harmonica notes dripping out my eyes while i sit there on the carpet looking dumb
It is now 1943. I am young, wearing black leather boots and a rifle, marching to a windy island in Italy, leaves and grasses waving by me as my mates sing a song about a ditch, to keep our spirits up. My spirits need no helping. I am YOUNG! I am going to fill my pockets with oils, citrus, nuts, and wine! It never occurs to me that to be this happy, I must somewhere at some other time, be very, very sad.
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