Who is there left that you can talk to? Days go by.
‘Friendless, deserted’ (The Beggar’s Opera?) — left in the lurch
(what lurch?) — you languish. Time to make plans to die?
You box up some age-stained letters, set aside more stuff,
but your heart’s not in it. Tomorrow will be soon enough.
Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
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