Remarkable. How long things take to break.
Here, where I made them move the bed,
between my bedroom and my studio, I can
glimpse the garden. The stairway I will
never descend again, down to the plants,
the flowers. Our reflecting pool. Better, I
suppose, not to reflect too much. On what?
That I will not be getting any better. Will
never see my face shimmer again in that
pellucid water. More clearly than in all
my fifty-five self-portraits? Perhaps not,
but revealing all the same. What’s clear
now? Cornelia says I woke well rested,
sane this afternoon. How can she tell?
And if I’ve made my wishes plain, then
where is Panzas? I need to tell him . . .
something. Let him bring that belly
to my bed. What was it I wanted?
Wished to say? Yes, I remember now.
I mean to tell him just how he should do
--well, everything. But then I’ll say: If
what you want’s to be aimless as a kite,
if you want only to be blown about
by wind, then be that way. And then:
I’m feeling better now. The pain’s
all gone. I’ll send Cornelia off to get
some rest at last. Before I made her go
to find Diego—Where is he?—I thanked
her for not abandoning me. Coming?
Cornelia. And Diego? Wait! Where’s that
ring I’d saved to give him next month for
our 25th? I fear I won’t be there, then.
Cornelia will insist before she goes:
Be very careful! Count the pills. Seven.
Be absolutely sure no more are taken.
But who’s equipped for calculation now?
Not I. Not Diego, certainly. He’ll miss me,
though. Much more than he knows. I’m
counting on it, actually. Strange, how long
it takes to . . . go. Disintegrate. Remarkable.