Ah, the humiliation.

A mere chest infection. I rather fancied myself the inspiration for a run of TB along the coast, or perhaps the importer of a little French Legionnaires, but a fucking chest infection! And me doubled over in the shower, arse and naked elbows, like the ghost of a Bacon, furious with memories of ancient, unending intercourse only to look down, cupping my frightened, shrivelled dick in my hand. What is this, the end, or the image of that end? And what are these if not my moments in time. If I don't heed them, who do I imagine will? Or worse, without heeding them, why have them? I mean, really.