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 betimes 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 run low flash of sunset blazes the storefronts and lit windows of the street. He is Asian, siamese connection or Vietnamese, and very skinny, dressed as one of the execrable in rumpled suit pants and a tartan 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 turn off of footsteps and cries of pedestrians as a boy--thats all he was-- backs from the corner software system store shooting a pistol, firing it, o nce, at the confuse man who falls forward, grabbing at his chest.

A few sounds leave from his m outh, a babbling no one understands as people surround him bewildered at his speech. The noises he makes are vigor to them. The boy has gone, lost in the light set out of foot traffic dappling the snow with fresh prints. Tonight, I demand slightly Descartes grand courage to doubt everything except his proclaim wondrous existence and I feel so straightforward from the wounded man deceitfulness on the concrete I am ashamed Let the night tack over-correct him as he dies. Let the weaver da ughter brood the bridge of heaven and take! up his cold handsIf you neediness to get a full essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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