my god. what will my biographers say?

from a correspondence sent in haste.

It was nothing more than a scribbled notation;

an inclination from the borderlines.

It was uninspired, meritless and… let's see.

what else? ah, yes! dimwitted.

I don’t drink so-to-speak so I wasn’t drunk.

well, not so's you'd notice.

extreme daylight was beginning to piss me off

the way it does sometimes. well, all the time.

look. none of which is spoken here is to be seen

as an indictment of a criminal act.

but almost everyone I know is dead, or like me, soon to be.

so who's left to council in times of mediocrity?

well, that’s not fair. who am I to be granted immunity?

mea culpa. mea culpa. mea maxima culpa.

basta!–– my god. what will my biographers say?

well, nothing good I'll tell you that.