Strangely I felt no fear at all for wanting death. Had an odd sense of familiarity. Like playing roulette. Once the wheel started spinning, I knew my odds were not in my favor.
3 decades worth of urgency and a steady enough hand to be a surgeon howbeit the art of butchery I could never stomach. Hands as changeless as to allow this hushed aim. That alone makes me monstrous. Power is forever in the hands of the miscarried.
You who have seen my tears understand the unflinching and immortal failures I accepted willingly because of being generous. Afraid of one honest thrust forward I have turned to violence and counted it civilized. The body does not betray, muscles can’t be convinced to sieze in fallacy; sinew does not dissemble. What fruit is left of me, the greedy will try to take in a manner so subtle we never notice the motionless marathons of their subtraction. The calm today is worth the worry tomorrow. Always is. Today is just like a hundred other days.