Between December of 1993 and May of 1994

I have biked through the Key West cemetery almost every day. I am usually alone, pedaling slowly, stoned, sometimes stopping for a closer inspection of a tombstone, but only sometimes. I loved listening to the resounding stillness as I pedaled along the path. But, at times, there were others present.

Some sang, to themselves, loud and soft. Others talked with those in graves. Others did grave rubbings. Some met my eyes when I looked at them, searching for some empathic trace of their motivation. Others paid no heed or looked away, as I pedaled to or from work, thinking of death, other thoughts, and now, of the strangers along the way.