My father dad died like that making no news no news being possible just something in the light over the snow pieced together as a dull ripple of winter ending a formidable process and child break into nervous distortions same as when mother and same as when time firms up or encloses a simple rhythm that carries no tune a flicker of winter on the tide of morning the lines grow as time and all feels shaken tho this is a story and James Bond dies in the end, only he doesn't
