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September 14, 2005

Stacy: Weary Unto Death

The pain in my head grows with each passing day. The physickers say it will eventually have my life. Nothing assuages the ache now...neither the white crystals nor the black tar. Rum still helps me to the sleeplands, but never for very long.

The only thing that makes the pain at all bearable is the needle of the Chinaman. I rather fancy I look like a disreputable sailing man with all this ink on my body, but the respite from pain is more than worth the disfigurement, and a gentlemen never is without shirtsleeves.

It will be over soon enough.

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