hoodwink.d enhanced

Sat Jul 16

Lola-in-garden

Lola in Rory’s garden

And past all this, reddened by a round slow September sun, are mountains, jagged, their tops’ sharp angles darkening into definition against a deep red tired light. Against the red their sharp connected tops form a spiked line, an EKG of the dying day.

David Foster Wallace, Forever Overhead

22. At my memorial service, I would like my clergyman to begin his eulogy with the words “I suppose, in a way, we all killed him.”

Request #22 from the living will of Paul Rudnick