Or maybe it was a singsong boat plying in the rain alongside the doorman's draped dinghy.
Certainly it was occupied by a multitude of people, many of them dead and many of them trollops.
Want Immortal Life?
Want me?
My reaction would come—next week—next month—never.
I'd already had it.
Since Thursday, I had been consumed by my reaction.
This was robust information.
My heart resumed its job.
The infinite, posterior brain relaxed.