There s nothing I enjoy more than the interminable march towards the cold embrace of my own grave. When I m done just throw me in that soily bad hole where skeletons live, I don t mind. I scream in delight with every fresh wrinkle discovered, each grey fleck found, every stabbing abdominal pain after thirty seconds of light exercise. Let me glide happily towards that eventual death, like a rotten log approaching a waterfall, or an expensive phone vibrating towards the edge of a dinner table. Who s calling? It s the yawning void of the infinite. Do you accept the charges?