I am dying, I can feel it in my bones. I lie. I cannot feel it anymore.
Tristan says he will take over and manage the farm so to speak. He has my memoirs (such as they are) and promises to put them in some kind of order.
I am reminded of Aldous Huxleys last words: 'LSD intravenous', or something like that.
Gin intravenous... Thats more like it.
Gin; memories of my father I never knew before I killed him, my mother who self medicated on the stuff, the men who bribed me or drugged me with it when I was a teenager. Gin; oblivion for the women who needed it before that.
And of course the gin-trap that is life.
I cannot extricate myself from this trap and rather than gnaw my leg off to free myself I will quietly drift away in order to sleep that most peaceful and dreamless of sleeps where not even a muse can wake me.
I cannot be bothered anymore.