The Garden of Utter Sanguinity and Wonderment
08.32 My last supper, albeit a breakfast
Subject: Whatever
Dearest Darling Forsythia,
It is, I fear, goodbye, my dearest Forsythia. I am about to drown in my own succulent juices. My legs have gone, and there is now the indescribable sensation of my sexual organs being devoured. One has always fantasised about this, no? What red-blooded pervert, hasn’t? Funnily enough, however, the fantasy was never like this, not in the least. In the fantasy, one is not dying; in real life, one is. I am also horribly alone. Except, of course, for this nameless, inexorable thing. Succour will not be brought to me, and neither will anything joyful or pleasant or in the least bit admirable. In the end, I shall be alone in every possible sense. Not even a note from you, my dear Forsythia. Not even a thought.
I am so cold. I don’t want it to end like this. All I wanted was to be happy. Contented, even.
I cannot find my fingers anymore. Only goo. And the “send” key is so very far away. Will you forgive me if I end on yet another reiteration? Shit, shit, thrice times shit! – Your Frie…..
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