You tormented me like the moon. I knew you were bound to old laws of suffering and darkness. I fear the wisdom of the crippled. A pair of crutches, a grotesque limp can ruin a walk that I start with a new suit, shaved, whistling. I envied you the certainty that you would be worth nothing. I longed for the magic of torn clothes. I was jealous of the terrors I built for you, but I could not tremble before myself. I have never been drunk enough, never poor enough, never rich enough. All this hurts, maybe it hurts enough. It makes me want to scream comfort. It makes me stretch out my hands horizontally. Yes, I ardently desire to be President of the new Republic. I love hearing armed teenagers sing my name outside the hospital gates. Long live the Revolution! Let me be President for my last thirty days.
LC.