[...] To be a footnote in his narrative! To have him as a footnote in mine! Our little lives, petty and puny, rendered important, if at all, in afterthought, digression, totally random dude-ness, a Bernoullic tactic of tacking, that tracks as mere tendency and tender tending. But it is clear now that's where he lived, in the ever-expanding running sole at the bottom of the page, the infinite open-endedlessness, the possibility inherent in that begging space down in the heels on bended knee, there to be filled with everything and more, one foot in the door of the Library of Babel and the other foot always always in the grave, the rest of the rest.