If he who flies through the air with the greatest of ease is going to kill himself, he will not be caught dead leaping off the bridge. He will spread peanut butter over a warm piece of cinnamon raisin bread and, taking a bite, chew many times slowly. He will block his windpipe with a wishbone. He will open his mouth slow to show no one his bolus. He will sip from a glass of milk without wiping away the milk mustache. He will swallow a handful of barbiturates. He will dab the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. He will weigh himself down with stones and, how everyone got ahead by pushing in line and making a complete ass of them-selves, he will wait for the tide to come in. Without weighty stones or foreskin of knowledge, he will place his head in a bag and tie it tight at the neck. He will turn to the book he’s reading. Once he’s done deconstructing this passage from Great Western Lit, a Herman Melville thing where a mix of races cram together on the same boat to signify the ups and downs of pluralism, he will find it in no small part homoerotic. No one has ever heard this before. It’s sham theory though. He read it in a dissertation a year ago and claimed it as his own. Yet another thing that doesn’t cause suicide, he filched it. He stole his whole shameful analysis from a true scholar. If he were going to take his own life, he would jump off the bridge. He would jump from the western side, looking out across the ocean as a form of oblivion. Or he would close his eyes and jump to the east, where the city sprawls and someone stands a chance of seeing him.