This afternoon, heading to a tasty bowl of dan dan mian at Ollie’s, I was about to cross Broadway—against the light, ’cause who waits for the light before crossing, really—but then I pulled back because I saw a laundry truck hurtling toward me, and I thought, Urg, run over by a laundry truck, what a way to go. A couple of hours later, I’m in the library going through a pile of books about Roland Barthes for my travail final, and find out that Barthes met his demise in 1980 when he was run over by a laundry truck.

I just don’t know what to make of these things when they happen. I mean, it just doesn’t make any sense.

Also today, I wanted to e-mail my pal Tom to say Hey, but then I thought I should be disciplined and keep researching Barthes. So I’m searching the library catalogue, and I type in the keywords: “Barthes AND Empire AND sign,” and then the search engine offers me, for no reason, “The rooster trapped in the reptile room : a Barry Gifford reader / Barry Gifford. Edition: Seven Stories Press 1st ed,” which is a book Tom edited.

It. just. doesn’t. make. any. sense.