My sister likes good music again, but she’s forgotten about her children. Look, she says, I went to a Nick Drake concert and he signed my boob. She pulls down her V-neck to show me the top half of the tagged boob, veteran bottle to four babies. That’s Nick Cave’s signature, I say. (The younger sibling is also hipper.) Nick Drake poisoned himself at twenty-six, months before most geniuses, precocious even at that, I say. That makes sense, she says. Your kids need a shower, I say. One of them has threatened to stop attending school. The middle one is training rodents to hunt smaller rodents. The twins have taken to quoting Kierkegaard. You want those poor things to turn out like their uncle? I’ve thought about suicide quite a bit lately and, believe me, I’m no Nick Drake, I say—don’t have the hair for it. I'd swear at least one of them has taken up smoking. Last night, she says, I brought home a flower, have you seen it? Sit down, I say, let me tell you a sad story.