As you turn as cold as weather yourself, I think of the longest minute I have lived, that in which my grandmother laid still, breathless, as I felt the burden in her bones, the oily stench of her mouth and sex, the divine scent of sour milk in her hair, while Rachmaninoff plays in the back, pounding the keys with joy and anxiety, the ears of his audience bestowing grace in his hands and lead in his bloodstream and fear in the eyes, and I and I only seem to listen to him and be here, cause my mother and father and sister and sister would rather be elsewhere, and the voice on the other side of the telephone line says I have got to be kidding cause it was all alright this morning, your brother wasn't in jail feeding on the metallic taste of promised freedom, he will be back in a minute, just a minute, and he shall tell you it will all be alright, cause you have got to be kidding that she has gone, you know, as that tiny dog you left in someone else's arms, you fucking pussy, you dared hit, I dared hit him with all cowardice because I feared being myself, the one who drank to ease the pain, as if, because he needed pills, so many pills, to be a better himself, not to be himself, loathing, breaking and burning, looking out the window, wishing it would it all end, if he just had the courage to walk down the street, take the number five bus, get off at Forest Hill, and let go, just jump, but instead I raped that dog's innocence, full of frustration, anger, because nothing came out as it should have since why do you have to be dying?… why did she die as that?… voiceless, thoughtless, unable to remember that who held her hand, that who got her in seafoam as a dress, though she hated me, inasmuch as I reminded her what in her eyes was wrong with this world, you should have died, awful seed, on that bus taking you home, you would have spared the world of another atheistic prick who believes has seen the light and such light ain't the light of the almighty, you fucking prick, your father does not love you, no one ever will, cause you lack the compassion to inspire love, O you are kind and gentle and display an utmost empathy to those who share their hurt with you, yet they shall all be silent the moment they are done with their suffering, and dispose of you, and they won't call you or write to you or the such, you ain't nothing but a disgusting tissue full of blood and snot, how can I contradict her now you curl in my hand and breathe so lightly I can barely hear you, as still as the heavens, as stiff as my bones full of sorrow as I wish not to let you go, not today, not on such a sunny lovely day, on which I ate vanilla ice cream and sang along the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen, for if you do, she will notice how horrid I appear to be when the sun sets and all I can do while a loved one dies is staring sadly while humming Rachmaninoff.