Thursday, December 4, 2008


He read: cocktails @ 8. yours &c, rw

Chuckling and sniffling at once, Laim Clot stuffed the missive into his pocket. He then took one of his ten fingers and rubbed it against the lobe of his left ear. He could not explain why he had done this, but this is understandable since no one had asked him to.

In three weeks time Laim Clot will be dead. The papers will pronounce it an accident, his family a tragedy, and his friends, well, his friends will most likely chuckle and sniffle all at the same time, but not really pronounce it anything at all.

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