He did not tie the rope around his neck. The torn heels of his sneakers slapped the ground as, rope in hand, he returned to his room. That was the moment he and I parted ways. as I watched him go, I saw a cloud of white smoke billowing behind him as he walked under a enormous orange moon.... It was his cowardice and indecision puffing out from the top of his head. then he was lost in the white smoke and gone. This was the rehearsal for dying, one which was to provide the subject for many of his later conversations. The more he spoke of it, the more abstruse and profound it became. As he later sought the reasons for wanting to die, and for wanting to live, he did not realize that he was becoming degenerate. The motivation of his actions would always be beyond his comprehension, certainly beyond his ability to articulate. He spoke in a high manner of life's "significance," but he excelled in deceiving himself as well as others. Yet now the words "The End" began to peruse him, whether he was speaking in public or making love to a woman. He only needed to be greatly moved or greatly disappointed for me to shout these words into his ears. These two words contain and cover all. I have a pair of eyes that do not know the meaning of exhaustion: at any time or place I am intently watching him... watching him. He sometimes wants to speak with me, but I never say more than: "The End!"
Since we parted ways, we come together only when he is on the cusp of death. Several more deaths followed his first rehearsal.
This will be my final note, thank you for reading.
