I'm looking down at the Santa Monica freeway, from the Lincoln overpass. I'm looking at what he saw in the last few seconds of his life. The cars are whizzing beneath me at 65, 70 miles an hour.
I wonder why he decided to jump when he did. I wonder if he tried to hit the car he landed on.
On the sidewalk, new bouquets crowd around dead, week-old flowers. There are ashes gathered in a small glass cup, in front of a newspaper article fastened to cardboard. There's a piece of paper taped to the overpass railing, but I haven't read it yet because when I do I'll know who he was. I'll know his name and his age and maybe a piece of poetry he liked.
I don't want to know him yet. Who he was isn't important yet.
Because I'm thinking about me.