Death in the afternoon

In his original, Hemingway wrote of glorious death in the afternoon.
But you wont find it here.

Eyes loose. Loose over the shirt hanging out. Bouncing. Over the shirt loose. Bouncing the train the eyes over the shirt bouncing here there the train the car the people bouncing
                                                                 pulling out over the bridge the sun bouncing around the car the people the eyes the shirt but no one sees it no one sees it -
You wont find it here.

Hello can you hear me?
Can you hear me Can you hear me NO HE CAN'T HEAR YOU -
YOU'RE IN THE TUNNEL now, fucker.

Dark all around.

In his classic Hemingway wrote of a glorious death in the afternoon. But you wont find it here. The sun rising the whale awaking breathing in breathing breathing, breathing in all the microspasms in from the surrounding boroughs breathing in to eat to eat COOK FASTER MOTHERFUCKER!
                            IM COOKING! Grilling as fast I can, as fast as I can my hands are burning at least the meat is fresh.

The afternoon. Finally the afternoon. The death. Each day the same death. The eyes hang loose from looking at it for so long. Because in the end, we all want to die just a little bit differently.

Boredom.
        Diversified.

But you won't find that here.