We are going to die. Yes, and we will die in a well-covered silence that changes
nothing—see visitors’ beds, which count the strenuous hours of uneventful sleep
with the precision of borrowed time—a performance reluctantly paid in advance
with the unearned obol of a little act of pity that we yet seem to miss somehow,
as if we have always stood too close to one another to see each other’s faces.
I. I am going to die.
hidden pilcrow 