It's not cancer of liver or lung. Merely a papercut on my finger, the one I gesticulate with – or if crime is committed, press into an inkblock.
Not that my digit isn’t sore: wasn’t I howling like a sick lamb pre-guard of honour (check with your butcher) and squirming to the glee of my supposed loving partner, him cosseted there like the Rokeby bleedin’ Venus.
Good news – my misadventure won’t require a regular magazine column, an outpouring of solipsistic angst, interminable on account of new pills deferring termination: death a composition on decomposition.
For me, wounded indubitably, the story’s over.
Not that my digit isn’t sore: wasn’t I howling like a sick lamb pre-guard of honour (check with your butcher) and squirming to the glee of my supposed loving partner, him cosseted there like the Rokeby bleedin’ Venus.
Good news – my misadventure won’t require a regular magazine column, an outpouring of solipsistic angst, interminable on account of new pills deferring termination: death a composition on decomposition.
For me, wounded indubitably, the story’s over.
