I think the author of this fiction is dying.
For those who have been following his situation.
Khenpo Karthar said he didn’t see him dying anytime soon, but that was five years ago.
Anyway, it must be this autumn weather.
St Bruno, Quebec, the authors home town had its first snow the other day.
He misses his childhood home most of all this time of year, another winter in a northern city, Chicago, which is nice, but no Montreal when it comes to winter weather, will be upon us soon enough, kind, sir, all in good time.
Where were we?
From the top.
“I don’t know what to think any more.”
“Virginia, more than myself was all about Ogyen Trinley Dorje as a child, Apo Gaga, the nomad child.”
“We all made the trek together with Rinpoche to Tsurphu monastary in Tibet, I mean occupied Tibet.”
“Karl is my first husband, I’m happily single, as is Karl, as is my second husband I might add.”
“My second husband, who prefers to remain nameless, a software engineer, was a most generous man.”
“But that’s another story.”
End scene. Fini.
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