I am sorry for the weight of this old betrayal. I know you have smelt it in approaching days, that wet rancid is clear in the stiff blood hanging idle-busy in my distant sour limbs. I can smell your piss and fear. Until now the news has not yet reached the heart, pray for me he remains a damp and bundled load i can lug safely to the tip of the block. The trial itself will be sharp and short and slippery, and after worlds will have been popped into place, edges of death receded by inches. The world will be clear, sickness spared, or ill, will not have worms in my gut or the sick fester that rises from behind the eyes as they gaze upon the suns of Cambodia.
But really – a needle stuck into my flesh and the sterile fluid squeezed into my new orifice. Horrors, i would rather die early unraped.
I have seven days, and by then i must be cured.
Brothers, sorry i have been gone so long.