It strikes me that one could make a dick joke surrounding the notion of heights. Speaking of which, I was once interviewed by someone for an in-flight magazine who asked whether I was a postmodernist. (This will make more sense later as you read the text you just left, or if you go back now and scroll down below where you were reading at the point when you followed this note; it should seem clear that the temporal and spatial are somehow linked. There is a woman who is trying to die and a man who has agreed to help her, though now he is less certain. There are other instances of penile humor which suggest themselves, for instance the word self-gratification—especially since it is followed by the phrase “empty postmodernism.” This is a story about postmodernism. I am trying to tell you everything in variations on one text. This makes me a musician. Now the notion of linking everything seems about the penis also. So does big bang. Sementy postmodernism inking averthing.)
“You mean a card carrying postmodernist?” I asked, “I mean there is no membership card, no organization.”
“There isn’t?” he asked. He was genuinely shocked.
My answer is no. I am not a postmodernist. Like everyone I am trying to understand death.
So far the clearest quantitative measure of anyone’s understanding of death is the twelve minute difference between Glenn Gould’s two recordings of the Goldberg Variations.