The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

What does it mean that I have to sit and think for several minutes, and eventually have to count on my fingers, to figure out exactly how old I am?

I don't know what it means, but I know it's appalling, the fact that I have to do it, and the number I eventually end up with.

How it is that I...how is it...or, rather, why it is that I...that I seem to keep...or, really, that I do keep, that I keep ending up...that every single night I look at the clock, I look at the clock and it's two o'clock in the morning, it's three o'clock in the morning and I...I keep ending up at three o’clock in the morning, I keep ending up sitting here with...I don't know, I keep ending up sitting here with all this shit, surrounded by all this shit? Night after night I'm sitting here, I'm sitting here night after

Would you say?

I would say, yes.

Say what?

That is the question.

Yes, that's the question.

No, that is the question. No question mark.

What is the question?

Say what?

I said, "What is the question?"

And I said, "Say what?"

I heard you the first time, but I still haven't heard your answer: What is the question?

That was the question.

That?

Yes, that.

That?

Yes, goddamit, that is the question.

October, before it had

a name. Still, though, a month of

low iron skies and protracted

sulks and cold rain and bursts

of crisp radiance that never

lost their ability to

dazzle and surprise.

A flash of revelation

even as the hammer fell:

We will miss this world

when it's gone, or

when we are.

Same difference.