May Heaven Exist, Even If My Place

As The End Approaches, There Are No Longer Any Images From Memory - There Are Only Words.

All Writing Is Dreaming

It Seemed Incredible That This Day, A Day Without Warnings Or Omens, Might Be That Of My Implacable Death.

The Future Has No Other Reality Than As Present Hope, And The Past Is No More Than Present Memory.

Once I Am Dead, There Will Be No Lack Of Pious Hands To Throw Me Over The Railing; My Grave Will Be The Fathomless Air; My Body Will Sink Endlessly And Decay And Dissolve In The Wind Generated By The Fall, Which Is Infinite.