There is a burning at its edges. The cancer will make a bonfire out of me. My bones are little more than kindling. The grease released from my muscles sizzles and pops. I am mostly made of gristle, gristle and desperation. If I lay very still, close my eyes, and listen intently, I can hear the fire consuming the fuel it has made from me. There is just enough oxygen for it to continue to burn.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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