I don’t want to

You know. At the end. Be just another watch-wearing schnorrer plunging toward my own reflection. Fretting about thieves stealing cans of Ensure from the cardboard box beside my bed. My wallet in the nightstand drawer with only a health card and a couple of fives. Stains in the nursing home ceiling manifesting Chinese shadow shows. The ice pick in Trotsky’s head congealing in the repeating pattern of the wallpaper. The harlequin face of Putin the assassin refracted in the glass panels of the wardrobe. I shall lie on nails like a Hindu holy man and stream undulating eddies of soul. Geysers of Enceladus erupting through the perforations in my back.