My last will...my last walk...my last play. I never thought of a last play. Henry VIII was to have another and yet another...creeping on but creeping to be sure...other sonnets...other songs...to sleep, to die, to sleep...
O shit on death.
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February 10, ’16
I used to wake with anticipation. I wake these mornings and know that I may not wake in another twenty days. When I lie down to sleep I think I may fall asleep and from that sleep never wake. I consider the worried faces about me and realize they will not have to endure me for long. Jonson visits me and I think this is his last visit.
Cheat, your door, as it swings open, opens onto a cave; no shepherd’s note signals to watery star...cuckold...bastard...my tale will end and my small cubicle will be filled. Have I put down man’s spirit with enough spirit? Beauteous youth, have I recorded you? I never wanted to write love’s epitaph... Antony was my tongue in praise.
I am certain that love is the best, love that is closest to beauty and the kindest of affections. Sensation surpasses thought. Imagination is well enough but it is not love. Between earth and heaven, imagination compares with no warm arms and legs.
Feb. 11, ’16