Look at me here.   I must be dying.   It’s as though both kinds of consumption have slowed me.   Still, it almost could be blissful here in this heat.   Here in this heat.   That child, of a morning.   For no good reason screams.   And just when the trains had ceased to bother me.   Just let me lie - oh, God, a few more moments.   Look at them here.   They’re not even trying.   Does every kind of cretin have to pretend that I’m breathing?   Oh, the introductions.   The making light of a heavy silence.   And without any sharp cutlery.   Onward pen.   You ruinous.   You wretched thing.   I keep doing these drafts over and over again.   Who would love me for my dying?   Who would listen?   At least I don’t lie.   Not for you, I wouldn’t.