Assassination

It’s a beautiful thing, death. To let death come to you. To lie down and let it claim you.

I’d actually like to be assassinated. For someone to pick me out – me – and assassinate me. Because of what I was. Because of what I am.

It’d be like they understood me, in a way. That they’d divined the secret of me. And that I was time for me to die.

A bullet in the head. A bullet shattering my sull. That would be a tremendous thing. A bullet through my brain – the soft matter of my brain …

 

An assassination – God assassinating me. God knowing what I was and what I wanted and how I was full of some great death wish. Some divine death wish …

My death, my murder, prepared for me, ready for me. Having my eyes closed. Having my heart stopped. Having my lungs no longer fill and empty. Having my thoughts – stop. What would my last thought be? It’s all so beautiful. How glad I am to die. My fantasy. My beautiful deathwish.

 

The greatness of death. The mercy of death. The coming of death. Let it come.