though we will all be horizontally integrated at some point. My father tells me that everyone I now know will someday die but I can only tell him "Papa, I am only five. I cannot conceive of such things without a cold, wet cloth wrapping itself tight round my heart and you surely don't want this, you don't my eyes to dim, my 'me' to recede from your view, now do you?" And to this, the simple bastard only nods and smiles that thin-lipped smile of his and mumbles, "Oh, my boy, you've already tumbled down so many, many stairs." He's a funny man, my father and while we cannot avoid becoming to great degrees our antecedents, the tiny sliver of self that emerges independent will always be perplexed by why he can't see the future when he poses such obvious statements.

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