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Very truly yours, Mr. Harrigan
How does he consistently make death so beautiful?
believe you hear a click, not in your head but in your soul, when you find the place where you belong. You can ignore it, but really, why would you?
When an old man dies, a library burns.
Damn
“The human brain is finite—no more than a sponge of tissue inside a cage of bone—but the mind within the brain is infinite. Its storage capacity is colossal, its imaginative reach beyond our ability to comprehend. I think when a man or woman dies, a whole world falls to ruin—the world that person knew and believed in. Think of that, kiddo—billions of people on earth, and each one of those billions with a world inside. The earth their minds have conceived.”
Later he will lose his grip on the difference between waking and sleeping and enter a land of pain so great that he will wonder why God made the world. Later he will forget his wife’s name. What he will remember—occasionally—is how he stopped, and dropped his briefcase, and began to move his hips to the beat of the drums, and he will think that is why God made the world. Just that.
Damn
I was looking for you, Holly. Just as you were looking for me.”
“God, this is Holly. I need to call my mother now. Help me to remember I can stand up for myself without being all nasty and poopy and getting into an argument. Help me to finish another day without smoking, I still miss cigarettes, especially at times like this.
