Thursday at 8:30 a.m.: He opened his office, sat at his desk, turned on his computer, and banged his head on his keyboard. End of story.
Gray was in his mid-50s.
If I'd dreamed this up I would have made a penalty box, for sure; but death is beyond my imagination. I'm just here playing the game. I didn't make up the rules. To complain about that you'll have to talk to someone other than me.
You're going to go, too, friend, so consider it a matter of how you play it. It's not that bad, all things considered. We're free to choose how we live and how we don't. We get to make up our attitudes toward how we deal with the things we live with. I like to laugh and celebrate the morning sun. I like to think of myself as a fighting man, ready to take on the odds against me and to try, at least, to win a day. The gods don't care, and I don't care. I laugh, and we all die. I've lost another friend. I shoulder this burden. I'll take myself and my grief to our meeting tomorrow, Thursday evening, to the library at Vancouver, Canada, and I'll sit with others in the atrium outside Lugz coffee bar; and we will sit and talk, a thing fighting men and fighting women do. I'm not going to talk about my friend. His story is over. We'll talk about life and the living. I want you to join us. We'll join my friend later. For now it's for us to meet. We, the living.
VPL, atrium, 7-9:00 p.m. We wear blue scarves. Sit among us. Be alive with us.