Mors Lectulo

On this night, I will suffice my article of tragedy, with the private supplements of prescient divination, an unadulterated vigil, of my calamity, by the eye of masochistic salvage. Forgive me, I am not capable of such sorcery, but there is no mundanity whatsoever, in the macabre envisagement of the moribund, and such indulgent suffering is often the metaphor of premature burial. Upon the designated expectancy of death, the mind is enough torture to the soul, as it adamantly blackens our prospect, with the putative condition of impending futurity, further augmenting the trammel of illness. The physician has said his piece, which is, I will not be alive for long, and yet do we not embrace the heralds of misfortune, before deriving some, adequate circumspect, and hence eschewing the self-designed crucifixion of nihilism? Why then, in this ordeal, should I, expect the salvation of the angels, or even a novelty of Science? You will say, that divine intervention, may alter the morbid course of things, and bring me to the light of convalescence, through the earnest of my faith, but is this not culpable selfishness. Many clergymen have visited my chamber, and repudiated my circumstance, in the name of ordained revelation, but they only loathe, the very carnality of my suffering, which has been attributed to Satan, and not the natural symptom. They speak of condemning foul spirits from my vessel and cannot hear, the sorrows of the man, before them. I would always wry, like the lucifugous vampyre, at the sight of sunlight, when they hovered over me, and one of the oblivious vermin, orated the scriptures of primitive testimony. They thought, I would perhaps, repent upon my last days, for that selfish cause of redemption, at the expense of punctual accountability, when all else is otiose. I bade them to leave me in peace, and will nevermore hear their vain rhapsody. Certainly, I am deserving of this end, for I have lived a life of debauchery and deplorable alcoholism, and have lost all sustenance of life. My soul wanes, like the amber horizon, in the dye of the nocturnal mazarine, and the malady erodes my marrow. I may not see tomorrow, nor the pristine verdure of heaven, but I have at best, sufficed my bosom.