Don't you wish that music in prose meant more than it does? That the flow of spoken words didn't belie the message below?
I'm sitting, thinking about my upcoming appointment and imagining terms like "advanced stage" and "inoperable," and wishing they meant something else, like higher theater and beyond conveyance through mere opera. I hear a watch and a clock ticking and wish they were metronomes clicking in-synch. They become insufferable once I notice they are a dissonance to my own heart beating in my neck and ears. Then I begin to worry that my inner beat keeper might play an untimely rest, and never return to that universal harmony.
While I'm sitting here I imagine men like myself dwelling, through the ages, on those final moments. I fancy an old fox hunter and gentleman in his study wondering what it was all about, rethinking the quality of his love. I'm wishing that the person I love (though there are many), that she was with me, understanding.
Finally, I'm expecting that every man before me has come to this epiphany, at the realization of his death, that that was what it was all about.