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Martin Drowning.
Then he was tired of hurling himself
against the flashing, jingling cage of the city,
its important, empty people ever squirming,
its towering honeycombs of lit cells,
its orange night skies and broken moons.
He knew now.
His mind was gnawed and numb, and he was
tired.
Hope had died its deadly death at last, and it always does die
last, slipping into the silent shadows
as fear is set free, soaring into a
terrible tranquility.
While he killed himself,
he sneered.
This pain was not death.
This suffocation, this strangulation
was not death. For death did not hurt.
This was life,
life still,
always life.
But this was the last pain that life could deal him now,
and that was what he knew
before he ceased to know.
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