Ending

This is old Nicanor, who gathers roadside pecans with the aid of a slinky. Nicanor appears to know no place or time of his birth. He lives as he can in a cold water apartment.
I am at the coffee house where I have just succeeded, on the second try, in uploading a very large file. My butt has expanded to fit the chair. When I came in the parking lot was full and hordes of young people were standing around outside. I thought the place had suddenly become popular with the pea coat and bandana crowd, but no. It was a kind of wake for a college student who commit suicide this morning. The women have the white and stricken faces of ten thousand years of widowhood. The men are stoic and silent.
Somebody found no home or place to make it all worth-while. Nicanor, alone in his filthy room, appears to have no such difficulty.
When I leave here I must be careful not to back over any of these young mourners. What sadness. After several hours and the coming of cold darkness, dozens of them remain, with only cigarettes to warm them.