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338 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 8, 2026
A sad thought—this chill would accompany him right to the end. David had already gotten his last sunny day and it had happened without him knowing it.
Tears sprang to his eyes.
So couldn't he have another chance? Now that he knew to look out for it?
And maybe it made sense that this task proved so difficult, that the attempt to write the letter only underscored the necessity of the letter: things really had become unmanage-able. Other words for it: unbearable; meaning-less.
Disconcerting, this mental ice floe, populated only by David, floating off into the polar darkness. He was some-times a figure standing on the shore, watching himself float away, and sometimes he was on the ice floe, losing sight of land.
The ice floe-he had tried to write about that. In the letter.
In his strange new child's handwriting, these fat, scratched-out blocks.
The ice floe. The white room in the brain. How he knew when he was smiling and it was an error.
This dark hour, this loneliness.
Fear which lacked a shape. A dark, crumpled coat thrown carelessly into the corner of an unfamiliar room.
It would appear premature, if done correctly. He returned to this in moments of hesitation. That this was the only way to sidestep the body’s authority—exit while the good things were still in reach. A fair number of good things. And exit while his body was still mostly onboard. When the issue was mostly that his brain shook information like dice in a little leather cup and then let the dice loose in a jumble on the green felt and it was sometimes not a very fun game! Leave the party right when you think, I’m having such a nice time at this party.
Would the young people believe it if you told them that one day their skin would oxidize and reek? That they would need to order flimsy bars of special soap from foreign countries?
They were brains in a jar, barely encumbered by the body.
They worked to minimize the time before people would click on an ad. Tracked the flutter of eye movements on a screen, and figured how to funnel those flutters most efficiently into profit. Map the contours of the brain and divert it along the intended course.
Unless that brain was useless, addled.
Addled. That was the sort of old-fashioned euphemism.
For the stutter in David's mind. This shuffle of other disappeared things—images, facts, names, stretches of time significant and minor.
The quick brown fox.
I grow old, Mr. Bones.
Ha-ha