twenty-seven years and one million words
Tonight on the way home from the daycare, Mari and I found a fellow of about our age lying on the sidewalk, unmoving and eyes closed. Mari said, "We should do something." It was only then that it occurred to me that he wasn't simply sleeping one off the way you see in this city (photo below).
not a medical emergencySo, remembering my CPR training, rather than touch him I patted on the ground next to the fellow and said in Japanese, "Hello? Do you need any help?" I did this a second time and he sprang to sitting upright with a shocked look on his face. Looking about him in confusion, he turned away from us. Again in Japanese, I asked him, "Should we help you?" but he only sat resolutely looking the other way (saving face?).
So we went on our way. Mari twice looked back. The first time he was lying flat. The next time, when I also turned to check on the fellow, he was standing and preparing to go.
Had he been mugged? Or maybe drugged? Was he diabetic, perhaps? Overly medicated? We won't know.
Immature poets imitate mature poets steal bad poets deface what they take and good poets make it into something better or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique utterly different than that from which it is torn the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time or alien in language or diverse in interest.
—T.S. Eliot