I want to die of malaria.
I want to walk on two broken feet, and know I’m gone a day in advance. But doubt it, because I’ve been so close before.
I want to fall on the floor and look up at thatch, choke in the arms of a brown-skinned girl. I want to hear the birds and be angry at them, and curse the gods in my pain.
Let me give them dying words not for their sake but for mine, and in my deadened eyes, let me forget them.
To use everything I’ve got. Go out in a wreck.
The highest flight crashes hardest.
Many thanks to all patrons who are backing my novella, Lúnasa Days. Check out the great benefits for patrons and consider adding your support.
P.S. It’s my birthday! It’s been one year since I left my life behind and started a new one.