He bowed. He lay back down in the coffin. The rain was pouring down, yes, just like in the story, as if in your wildest writerly dreams the sky itself were listening, an accompanist to your body tune. He sat up. He leaned over the edge of the coffin. The man known as Johnny Coma whispered (but in that loud stage whisper way), “Psst. I am not really Johnny Coma at all. I am Jon Quixote. Yes, I am on a quest; crazy man is me. I came to find my daughter. I came to find my book, I came in search of words. Who reads today? Nobody. Who wants to know a book? Not a person. Who wants my name? Everybody. But it is not even my name. Nobody but a crazy nut would write a long involved novel. I am that person, people. People I am Salt Quixote. Call me Quixote in a Hurricane. Quixote in the Rain. She die
