We were in the street and we could hear him now snoring in poetic fart-like noises.
“He’s driving me fucking crazy,” said Clark.
And I said, “Why do you let it get to you?”
“I don’t want to die,” Clark said. “What does that mean?”
“It’s fairly self explanitory,”I said. “He doesn’t want to die.”
“Well who does?” Clark asked. “I mean really? Who does? What is he saying?”
“I don’t want to die.”
“Is he saying that you DO want to die? That I WANT to die? That what? That my mother wanted to die? What is he saying?”
“I don’t want to die.”