"I prefer men to cauliflowers" Do I?

Who died? Sunk in the cold waters, pebble in the coat pocket. Virginia Woolf? Clarissa Dalloway? Septimus Smith? Richard Brown? Richard Cory?
“…and put a bullet through his head.”
Richard Cory, he had a gun in his hand. The perfect gentleman, the perfect good morning, till, he put a bullet through his head.
Wish I had a gun.
Open my brains, seek out my mind, wretch out the grapes, the cauliflower from the mental fruit basket, and close the lid again, the lid kissing the basket rim, two empty mouths meeting.
But “I prefer men to cauliflowers”. Men, cauliflowers, inedible, edible, hard, soft.
Wish I had a gun, like Richard Cory. But no, I won’t pull the trigger. It’s infinitely better to live.
Cauliflowers, men, soft, hard.
Maybe I want to pull the trigger after all. I open my eyes. The stone is slowly sinking in the cold waters, blue, dark. No. No gun, no bullet. Who knows what’s behind the bullet.
The grapes are still outside, or was it the cauliflowers? I said I would buy the grapes myself, the cauliflowers myself, the men myself.
Stomach touching the white sheets, mouth open, soft noise emerging from it, head on the pillow, enclosed in a mosquito net. It rained. It’s a dark night.

08-01-09