There is rain pouring, yet I do not move from here, this bench where I have sat one a many day. Even the book I hid in my jacket is completely drenched —the Atlas Opisan Nebom by Petrovic. I lit a second cigarette, for, what does it matter now? I hadn't gotten wet since my last birthday, almost a year ago. Sarah, my beloved Sarah, told me I had better not, that I could suphocate, especially in this weather, or that, even worse, if it happened to rain, I would catch pneumonia and everybody knew what would happen. Nothing happened. Nothing ever happens. At least to me. I got run over at the age of six, for chrissakes. And I am still here. Not for long, though. It's been nine months since I was supposed to die from that stroke. I regained control of my face muscles. I was able to lift a cigarette to my face and puff the afternoon away. Nothing ever happens. Unlike today. I wonder if I have done wrong. I know it is late to repent, and to say or at least think I am sorry. I have been so difficult many times. I always said kids are the greediest of them all human beings. And I still think it, but, I mean, I am a fucking child no matter how old I am, how grandilocuent my ideas are, how obscure the music is. I am a greedy fucking child. And that might have made me wrong people I cannot apologise to now. It's not that I wish things had been different, though. The Lord, if he happens to give a rat's ass, knows how hard I tried. I was patient with people, and Sarah, my beloved Sarah, should know better. She said I wouldn't live to be 60. And she's fucking gone before me. All have gone before me. That's why I won't move. Cause there's no one who will call my name, who will say 'dad' to then run to hug me, no one to state the obviousness of 'you are wet' and comfort me with a towel. The magic is gone, that's why I clench this book so hard. Hen would call me a wuss and have me get up instead of feeling sorry for myself. I am not. This cigarette tastes so good. Perhaps, it does because I know I am dying. That nurse has finally given up pestering me about sitting here. I sat here to play with my brother that we were driving a truck around town.I sat here to read Verne, Wells, Asimov, and Vonnegut. I had ice cream with each of my best friends here. I was here to hold hands with Sarah and see the afternoon sun fade. Today I have nothing. Just another cigarette in the pack, and this pen and paper. The ink gracefully runs all over, making this letter a tad unintelligible, perhaps making my story unintelligible. I may also be ink run over way too much paper for someone to read me. That's all some people are when they die: wasted ink. I don't wanna be a waste. Perchance the ink I am has created a gorgeous pattern and someone would like to keep me. I may look the Nile, a tulip, a lightning bolt. I may look like that letter which starts the most wonderful name in the world. Sarah, I am feeling cold. It won't stop raining, and I won't be going anywhere. Give me warmth Sarah, just one last time. Perhaps, if I close my eyes, I will be able to see you, and give life one last puff, one last go. I have begun to run, and after I stop writing, I might as well just close my eyes. We are all ink, that's a pretty thought.