In the year of the rat, i found you in his room. there was talk of books, academics. you asked me what my favorite was, and i'm sure my answer wouldn't be the same now. something of carver, something of vonnegut. something not too far off but not the same. i don't remember what you were wearing, but you sat in the chair behind his, tilted, rocking on the hind legs of an unsteady chair. you made a passing comment to him, that he passed on. i'm sure you don't remember that, i'm sure you don't remember.