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(bang)

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-eight years and a million words

Toronto, 2005.02.16

I am getting old.

Today as I came home from the Canadian Tire with some Poly Filla and garbage bags in preparation for the move, I noticed that the gates to the Mt. Pleasant Cemetery were open, despite the gathering dusk. Surprised and pleased, I took the opportunity to see the place in the near-dark, and seemed to have the place to myself.

Then I slipped on a very thin layer of ice that had formed on the black-top pathway. In other times, I've always been able to partially prepare for and roll with a fall, but this time both feet just went out from under me, and I clocked my head on the pavement. The total elapsed time was something like 0.5 of a second, but I felt old and foolish. Which is entirely different from young and foolish.

rand()m quote

Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there.

—Anton Chekhov