When she was asked what had so upset her, she confessed that she'd dreamt the night before about a man who looked like him- exactly like him-getting shot and killed at a rally in Hyde Park. Once, years ago, he boarded an airplane for a business trip to London and a ﬂight attendant whom he'd never met saw him, gasped, and rushed from the cabin in horror. Premonitions of death seem to follow him. There was the accident, yes, but it's more than that. He has never really interrogated the cause of this preoccupation. 'I want to be around to see it.' But some part of him has always doubted he'll get anywhere close. 'So much is going to happen!' he says when asked about this peculiar desire. How many months-or, heaven forbid, years-had he lost to what he thought was a harmless ice cream habit? Then, one day, his doctor informed him that 'low fat' was an anachronism now, that it was sugar he needed to avoid, and the revelation felt like a betrayal. For thirty years, he followed his doctor's recipe for longevity with monastic dedication-the lean meats, the low-dose aspirin, the daily thirty-minute sessions on the stationary bike, heartbeat at 140 or higher or it doesn't count. He wears his seat belt, and diligently applies sunscreen, and stays away from secondhand smoke. For most of his life, he has nursed a morbid fascination with his own death, suspecting that it might assert itself one day suddenly and violently.

Miami vice neon sign font