I SAW MY PICTURE IN THE:
Well heck, it certainly wasn't Epicurean Magazine,
nor Tracer's Digest Of the Sky. We remember those
things like a knurly blot of wood on a tree trunk
stained with April. It catered to everyone else but
me. Maybe it was a race-car drivers monthly.
-
Is this all too abstract for you? Let me fill you
all in. I am dying nightly. Every fetish fills a
point. My time of revels is over.
-
You can come here, and take away whatever
you wish : salt water, pepper and tears. My wife
still cooks; firing up the griddle while holding
her cane. I thought she would go first, frankly,
and from what the medics told me. Now I know
that's wrong : my friends, I am taking my leave.
-
Without knowing what else to say,
I finally say nothing at all. Do you
ever bless me like I bless you?
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