<div> It will be well, if all that will stand with me at last is, I. I desire to embrace myself in a hug that cannot be described. Tightly, I will coil my arms around, I, the one who hurts me. </div><div> Dearest beloved, in this note I write. I desire the end of love and me, and the presence of silence. I desire the gift of numerous words at my mercy; that I might speak, and express, as beautifully as I need. </div><div> You quiet and endless night—rest, a folktale told by old minds under the breezing trees. </div><div> In all I know no end, nor desire, nor life. No, not I. Not as I have lived a crime, an endless crime, just waiting, waiting to die. </div>