It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

I guess they call it suicide, but I'm to full to swallow my pride I can't stand losing you The Police Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.

Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.

So much working, reading, thinking, living to do. A lifetime is not long enough. Nor youth to old age long enough. Immortality and permanence be damned. Sure I want them, but they are nonexistent, and won't matter when I rot underground. All I want to say is: I made the best of a mediocre job. It was a good fight while it lasted. And so life goes.