Everything I write here from the depths of my loss and sorrow.
Everything I write with loss and love.
You do not see anything but Southern courtesy, arrogance, quick offence and anger.
Perhaps a certain decadence, a selfishness and dissolution. Perhaps you see an ill man quietly playing patience.
Perhaps a dangerous serial killer with potential worrisome gun and knife-play.
Perhaps, just perhaps, you witness my fulfilling of civic duty. But that is all.
There have been some few to whom I have revealed such things as I speak of here.
I can count them on one hand - those into whose ears and eyes I have poured the wine of my soul as into glasses at the Last Supper.
I mean no disrespect. No blasphemy. A metaphor only, I assure you.
But that is what it is. All I am. All that will be left. "This is my blood... remember me." When I spoke to them, it was my last act.
Do you know what it is to be dying? To be dead? Every act is your last, and you must make it count.
And I am an ill man.
Oh, tears may form and you will see but my eyes watering from coughing.
A blush at remembrance is not so different from a flush of fever.
My condition could cause my hands to shake as much as nervousness or irritability.
Or, perhaps you might catch a glimpse, but I will never ever apologise, explain, let you touch it, let it touch you.
Neither do I have the time or effort to waste either to give that to you or keep it from you.
( I always look for more in you )
Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Word Count: 585
Please comment if you wish.
Nulli Virtute Secundus