Shut up. Now take it in your hand. It’s heavy, and cool. It’s wonderful the way they make these things to fit in your hand, just right. Comfortable.

Ugly.

What’s ugly? That’s a word. That’s thinking. Don’t think. Why not have a cigarette and one more swallow from the bottle. There. Now, better put the bottle under the bed.

If I just pressed my finger against this trigger, if I just squeezed . . .

Shh-hh. One thing at a time.

Turn out that light, you won’t need it. Now loosen the bulb. Unscrew it, one full turn. He’ll think it’s burnt out. Perfect. Now sit down and wait. Don’t tighten up and don’t think. Just sit.

Maybe if my notebook was here, I could . . .

You don’t need it. You can remember it all, every word you’ve ever written down.

Dearest friend, dearest Bernice, I am afraid you find me at a low ebb as I have been fighting the blues something awful. Isn’t it ironical that I have no one to turn to . . .

It’s true. I can remember it all. Maybe I won’t have to carry it with me, ever again. I’ll be free to just . . .

Besides, I am getting curious about Echo O’Brien, the old maid from Toledo that’s coming to visit, so why shouldn’t I get a look at her first, as there is always time for suicide at a later date.

Will I use this gun? On myself?

Don’t be such a fatass phony. You know goddam well what you’re going to do with that gun. You think you’re some kind of a saint? the only killer in the family is Berry-berry? Swinging his tail around, shoving his meat into any woman he wants? Let the slobs pay the piper. Just smile, move in, screw, disappearo! Or maybe stick around for a while, just long enough to slice off her nipples for her.

Then I’ve come here to kill him. Will I do it?

Take it slow. Wait and see. One moment at a time.

Can a ghost keep a notebook?

Ha.

Dearest Annabel, such beautiful weather here, Echo took me for drive in country Sunday aft, wildflowers all over, I thrive in summer but Echo restless. Gets dolled up and rattles her car keys. But God will find way.

Berry-berry doesn’t seem to ever get bothered with these thoughts. He just says, “Isn’t it wild?”

So I went to sleep and had this crummy dream about Shirley and her little brother, Willy.

“Ize told once that lavender was my most becomin’ color, so I spent an entire Sunday dyeing just about everything I own, even my underwear and my panda.”

This is a really crummy dream. Anyway, this person came along and started to climb up the candied-apple tree. He had a real wild look in his eye and you could tell he was the kind of a creep that absolutely despises all little kids. So he started to shake this high branch for all he was worth, and Willy fell out of the tree and got killed. I mean it wasn’t any accident.