Those struck by aneurisms, infarctions, things so sudden they never know what hits them. Maybe strangers walk up to them at basketball games, in supermarkets, at work, thin old Russian men carrying weekly news magazines or middle-aged black ladies pulling reluctant nephews or nieces behind them, and they smile politely, or maybe even slyly, and they say, That's it: it's all over. You did it. It's okay. You just died. And the diers wrinkle their brows in amusement as they walk by, thinking how weird to run into a crazy person at the basketball game, at work, in their own bedrooms. But then it dawns on them, even if that's not the right phrase: that would explain why it's been so dark these last few seconds, minutes, hours, and why so utterly, utterly mindless.
