I imagined my death this morning:
In a car crash or by a bullet.
I felt sorry for myself. I cried over my corpse for a while.
Soon after I started talking of cows, of the government,
of how expensive life is nowadays,
And I felt better, a little bit good.
I meant to tell you that I am really ill.
As if without skin, hurt by the air around,
wounded by the sun, by words, by dreams.
An annoying devil has climbed on the back of my head
and doesn't leve me alone.
Ulcerous, rotten, I have to live
crawling, on all fours, slowly, any way I can.
[Jaime Sabines (1926-1999)]