when the waitress asks how many bottles:

Following my 32nd birthday, I resolved to end my life in a way that would at least make an interesting story.  Nevermind the reason or the method... it was gonna be bitchin'.

and i came to,

cast in cool, smooth stone

which echoed every thought

like mirrors in a staring contest.

i met the Buddha there.

what's worse? that we were chums

but i didn't kill him 

-- despite explicit orders to do so --

or that he was just a little racist?

the word character couldn't begin to describe him,

so i folded a piece of paper where i had written my number.

then i folded it again and again until it was a knife.

then i released its strength to reveal crumples.

i folded it again and fashioned hills.

i sat in between two of them.

and wrote a poem:

[see Alan Watts, Tao: The Watercourse Way. 1975]

even in the night,

while avoiding the mirrored globes and cameras,

i could never get close enough

to slit his throat.