Michael Malone - Weebly

utterly random debris of civilization, was yet a further
indication of how far from grasping cosmic absurdity the
southerner was. Both men were collectors, but Hayes
framed his signatures of the great in a symmetrical row
around the walls of his den, and Sniffell pinned clippings
of the unfortunate helter-skelter on a bulletin board.
Sniffell made no evaluations of his findings, never
attempted to choose the ten best or worst tricks played
by the crazed and barbaric fates.
But Hayes had always been a list-maker. Since
childhood he had recorded errands, theories, heroes,
habits to break, books to read, lives to live. He
transferred to each new list the unaccomplished items
on its predecessor. Over the years the gap between
aims and execution had shortened as his desires
dwindled. Later Hayes would find the yellow scraps of
his forgotten "Things to Do, Be" in books or trouser
pockets. He had long since concluded that he would
never do or be anything but the out-of-shape editor of
the Dingley Day, who smoked and went to the beach
or the mountains for two weeks in the summer. He
would never be any of those possible futures, a brain