Complex Discetomy
My heart pounds as my head thinks what to do next. Take the rope, hang myself, take a glass, break it and cut my skin. Take a pen write a will to my inheritance. Which inheritance? My pen, my book (worth a thousand feelings), my two shirts, which I found by the bins? My mind wealth. My inheritance? Should I take my only pair of shoe and walk to the roadside, wait for the biggest truck and jump in front of it. Should I stop eating and wait for hunger to do it. Should I take a car and drive it deep into the dam, which car? I know it’s painful but I’ll breathe like a fish. Should I sit and watch the death bed! 6And again, should I feign the Corona-virus and wait to be taken to the isolation wards, make friends with the infected, dine with their spoons, get infected, throw up the drugs and wait for a Sunday when everyone is at home, eventually become a fatality. Won’t my number be shown on your screens? Wisdom of my dying solidarity. Troubled conclusions. Blurred blood bonds. Complex story of the stowaway’s arm.
