In City thingy, the world famous bookstore, following his brief to buy books about existential kinds of loneliness, I got two novels for a mate. And from the wood-floored room upstairs where they stocked the Beats and philosophy and poetry I got something for myself. I lifted it. Not namedropping, it was prose poems by a Frenchman I hid under my sweater as two biker-types chatted about a Hank and one said: I heard that cat is dying. Yeah I know, said the other, dying down there, in LA.
