Dear William

Words from the passed.

As I lay dead, I wonder what to say.  I wonder what to do.
Something fancy? I guess,
something interesting and profound?
But perhaps dead is enough, the final enough.

As I lay here dead, rotting and stinking, most unagreeable,
I find I quite like it.
Only, I wish I had been less agreeable, more smelly and rotten when I had a lot to say.  

As I lay dead, I know nothing of circles of truth or oneness of all.  I have no judgments of vices or virtue,
I enjoyed them both, just wish I'd had more vice, without the hangover.

As I lay dead, I know nothing is resolved

Author's Note

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