I could go on at what these days were but the truth is I am tired. Would you even believe me if I did or didn’t? Could this paper touch your face? I’ve spent enough years with my face arranged in books. I’ve read enough to crush my sternum. In each of the books are people talking, saying the same thing, their tongues thin and white and speckled.

I don’t want to be here. I want to get older. I want to see my skin go folding over.

Someday I plan to die.