When he’s, usually after midnight, returning home, the cold concrete of the staircase is waiting for him, and he, such as he is, cannot control the tidal wave of ontology: what is when what is he’s what is returning what is home what is what …? In front of the entrance, he starts shaking empirically and sees himself as Ulysses  []

There Is Less and Less Space

The earth has done its work. We wouldn’t have thought it, my brother and I, but a friend said to us “Your father’s gotten slimmer.” “Huh?” “His grave is sinking in!” We went to the gravedigger to order the gravestone. “Don’t worry,” he said, “everything will be just right.” But we wanted a solid gravestone, cost didn’t matter to us.  []