Death at Swan Lake
an Art of Dying fragment
We had left Hakan’s apartment. The evening has yet to darken. It is warm, autumn knocking on the door, but summer selfishly refusing to let go. A car or two down the street, the sound of a bus gearing down. Birds still talk. It is very pleasant. The air itself knows how to spell that word: p-l-e-a-s-a-n-t.