Ruining the flight darkness, ruining the darkness of the midnight flight
by not using a red light. Flying through the flowing, running darkness,
on horseback, running through the darkness on the back of a black horse.
Some stars are silver ornaments on a dark horse's bridle, a black horse's
harness.

We'll bury the sickle sheik out behind the shack. In northern climes, we
put our dead in the ground because they stay down there. In the desert,
all manner of beast can easily dig up any corpse we plant in the dunes.
And they do. At least we are not like the heathen Persians with their
towers of silence, boiling with vultures like some gigantic cup of flies.

After Bobby died, we were all in a blue funk for awhile. Then one day, as
I gnawed dejectedly on a piece of bobby jerky, it occurred to me.