When the clock you had shot couldn’t be repaired, you placed it on a hill as bear bait. The floor of the forest was littered by then with the red-and-black checkered caps of hundreds of hunters. There was, your last postcard said, a complete absence of twilight. You should have lived to fifty or even fifty-five, a pint tucked away in your back pocket. Other fathers did.
The Postman Dada Guide