“The sun, faced with no options, went down,” said my book, right before I dropped it in tomato sauce. One could say that the book, tucked under my arm, was possessed of a similar fate.
“The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new,” said Samuel Beckett, fifty years ago, having anticipated this tragedy.
“Isn’t it good to know, no matter what, you’re always you?” said a friend, in consolation. I admire my friend because he has many ideas about life, and a quality herringbone jacket.
I also like the word: herringbone. It sounds like a delicate fish collar; the gentle lift of bubbles in a newly opened soda can.
