Sometimes he's a bit scared about his present state ;
could this fit be nothing but an expression of death ?
He dreams about his body on the floor ;
here come the flies knocking at the carrion’s door :
"The cure, where’s the cure ?
Where are my tablets now ?
The cure, where’s the cure ?
Without you I am lost !"
Sometimes he doesn’t care enough about the suffering ;
too many pills somewhere on a bedside table still waiting for him…
He seems to sleep but with wide open eyes.
He needs some help, the blood is filling his mouth.
I know you so well, you think you’ve been dead for years ; inside your head even time has disappeared !
"Lovely disease, just take your ease,
but when you come to take me, please, sculpt my corpse like a masterpiece."