Headlights through the kitchen window. Are you finally home? Head down on the table watching an abstract puppet show. With the light hope rises-in the darkness, well, there it goes. As I lose myself in chiaroscuro. Car keys clatter on the tile. You lunge for the phone. Your voice like a frightened child's: he's had some kind of stroke. Be calm my dear, I'm just moving a little slow. As it all approaches absolute zero. Now there's no one behind the curtain. How you hate hospitals. I know it's an awful burden, but that's the way it goes. I'd let you off the hook but by now you and I should know. We're involved in something irreversible. They say nothing survives. But in the case we do. I'm afraid of my posthumous state-I don't know if karmic residue is something you'd even recognize-so here's what I'm going to do: take some time to erase myself, then whatever's left I'll leave with you. I'll bury it in you.