Category: Art

                                               

325

Here it is: To create is not to die. Let me tell you this. Listen. Do not look away. Do not close the book. Do not turn off the light. A closed page, eyelids dropped, darkness, amounts to death for me. Keep me alive. Read on. Wait. Here it comes.

326

When I cough I rattle and afterwards I hope it is my last cough. Not my last cough. I want to know before my last cough so I can achieve the greatest last cough. Shakespeare achieved a thunderous cough and then shat his pants and died. That’s what happens.  You cough. You shit your pants. You die.

T.H. Smith-Montagu

Harold and Lilly married in a small church where grass ruled the graveyard.

Harold and Lilly moved into a big house with many empty rooms deep in the countryside.

Harold spent his days killing deer and boar and duck and pheasant and pigeon and rabbit with his favorite double-barreled shotgun.  

Lilly spent her days and nights in bed, drunk on gin, surrounded by her many cats.

Harold locked his favorite double-barreled shotgun betwixt his teeth and unloaded both barrels into his mouth.

Lilly died an alcoholic’s death in her bed, sad but not alone, surrounded by her hundred cats.  

Harold and Lilly decomposed with the help of worms and rats side by side in the graveyard that nobody visited.

The hundred cats lived very happily in the big house and used all of the rooms.

Paul Kavanagh