The 6th of January 1902 – Dublin, Ireland

(found in the drift)

To Who Ever Stumbles Across –

There isn’t nowhere I fit. There isn’t a place nowhere for me.

I just’ve got myself and I been walking for so long. Ah, my fete are heavy and my hands are stiff. My eyes don’t do more than squint anymore, for all the winds that have lashed up against my face. I been walking for so long.

Ah, my body is tired and acheing. Ah, there is this feeling that I have all of the time and I feel it very deep and very low in my spine. I feel an anchor there, a cold and dragging anchor. It freezes me. It makes me heavy.

Ah, but for my lonesome fete and my trembling hands. But what am I to do anymore?

I haven’t got nowhere where I fit.

The snow falls thickly and makes it hard to see much farther out than my own nose. Horses pulling carts grunt and struggel all thru the streets. A man shouted out a warning to me and I dived out of the way, to the side of the street.

I landed here, almost sitting like in a stool, here in this snow bank.

I’ve been apart from things for so long. But now I’m seated in this snow bank. The packed snow feels soft underneath me. I can relax in it. The snow is falling all around me. Perhaps I will be swallowed whole by it.

Now my eyes squint from the snowflakes which blow into my brow. My stiff hands struggle to get these last words onto paper. Ah, my fete still ache, but they are not as heavy.

I fit here, dying.

I do not even feel the cold.



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