The Legend By Garrett Hongo

In Chicago, it is snowing softly and a man has just d adept his laundry for the week. He steps into the twilight of early evening, carrying a wrinkly shopping bag full of neatly folded clothes, and, for a moment, enjoys the feel of nimble laundry and crinkled paper, flannellike against his gloveless hands. Theres a Rembrandt glow on his face, a triangle of orangish in the hollow of his cheek as a remnant flash of sunset blazes the storefronts and lit windows of the street. He is Asian, siamese connective or Vietnamese, and very skinny, dressed as one of the execrable in rumpled suit pants and a plaid mackinaw, aristocratic and too large. He negotiates the slick of ice on the sidewalk by his car, opens the Fairlanes back door, leans to place the laundry in, and turns, for an instant, toward the evade of footsteps and cries of pedestrians as a boy--thats all he was-- backs from the corner parcel of land store shooting a pistol, firing it, once, at the baffle man who falls forward, grabbing at his chest.

A few sounds spring from his m proscribedh, a babbling no one understands as plenty surround him bewildered at his speech. The noises he makes are vigour to them. The boy has gone, lost in the light set out of foot traffic dappling the snow with fresh prints. Tonight, I get word slightly Descartes grand courage to doubt everything except his profess wondrous existence and I feel so diaphanous from the wounded man deceitfulness on the concrete I am ashamed Let the night tack application him as he dies. Let the weaver daughter wrap u p the bridge of heaven and take up his cold! handsIf you miss to get a full essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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