She was not surprised to be met by others he had called, nor was she
astounded to learn that he had died all by himself, wrapped in two
dusty khaki blankets, sprawled on a tattered mattress, flung on an iron
frame that served as both bed and escritoire. It was so like him, to
die like that.
Removing the rigored cadaver through the narrow doorway was tricky. The
medics rolled it down the claustrophobic and penumbral staircase (there
was no lift). His ink-tainted right hand kept striking the peeling
yarns of greenery that hung, flayed, from crumbling concrete walls.
Panting, they laid him on the bottom stair, an outsized embryo with jet
black hair and eagled nose. His nostrils quivered.
The radio reported his passing and lengthy obituaries adorned
tomorrow's press. The critics cloaked with affected objectivity the
overpowering disdain they held the man, his lifestyle, and his work in.
They claimed to have been his closest friends and recounted some futile
anecdotes.
The ceremony held by the municipality in the Writers Hall was open to
the public.
I said to Nomi:
"Why don't you approach the organisers? Tell them that you have
composed music to some of his poems and that you are willing to perform
them.
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