A friend of mine died yesterday; his name was Frostbyte, more or less. Kevin, really, but I don't know that I ever called him that. I find that I don't know how to write about him. He irritated me no end, at times, and our lifestyles after he left tep were wholly dissimilar. But he was brilliant and messy and good, and I loved him, and I miss him now, the way one invariably does when it makes no difference. Last night a lot of old friends were brought together to mourn and celebrate; it seems right to thank them for that. We are lucky who know where to turn at such moments.
This story about a bus seems silly in comparison. But she had said: 'No, it's the opposite of silly,' and that's heartening. We are lucky too, whose only prisons we can write our way out of.
I always tell people I'll live to be 100, but I wonder.
