Then he wrote:
He turned off the lamp. The room went dark. The cockroach remained where it was. And for the first time in years, Henry Chinaski closed his eyes without hoping for anything. Not the knock. Not the ring. Not the woman. Not the drink.
Just the dark.
Below it, the final line he’d added:
“A veces estoy tan solo que tiene sentido,” he said aloud, rolling the Spanish like a loose coin on his tongue. Sometimes I am so lonely it makes sense.
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