I've had a line going through my head all day, perhaps born in a half-waking moment around 4 AM last night, that death is like a door in the attic that opens into a hole in the ground. This is one of things that I don't know what to do with but don't want to forget. So it goes here. Maybe at the end of the fifty years I've got, I'll say "I've opened the attic door to a hole in the ground!" and then die, and no one will know what I mean. I'm sure by then I won't know either. But now that I'm writing this I've envisioned a few ideal last-words scenarios:
1) leaning from a window on the second floor, screaming it out to the neighbourhood, then falling out the window onto the sidewalk. A little kid takes my shoes.
2) walking down the street with my eldest son at my side, suddenly stopping to utter the words, then falling face-first into a mud puddle. Or being hit by a Puddle of Mudd tourbus.
3) typing it out on my weblog and getting shot in the back of the head execution-style by a sasquatch.
Hold on a sec.
Nope, scenario 3 didn't happen.