I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of a cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.

I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.

That is what dying is: a pull to the ground. I am thin as a shadow, yet clotted as dough, my blood as thickset as mud.

Every atom in me feels composed of lead. This is what dying is: a pull to the ground.