May I be remembering th’worst memory of my life?

The sun and the clouds were fighting to get the sky,

O, this terrible sun and those so beautiful clouds!

I looked at th’Paradise that I could have got.


“I’m holy”, and I kissed the statue of th’Holy Virgin.

(Now, I’m sure it was so icy.) I knew nothing could happen

To me. I hear the voice of my mother, asking me what happened.

(Now, I’m sure she worried so hard.) I knew I was th’angel of God.


It was on Saturday, maybe on Friday, or on Sunday; I cannot remember.

I was in my room, I wrote a letter. I had never seen th’man

I would send it. He was gay; I hated homos. He was ill;

I was afraid by sick men. Far from him, I felt the smell of Hell.


One hear me saying that “I do th’will o’ God!”

One felt me strange; one saw the will of the Dickens.

Were I a devil! I could not imagine that. Were I a devil!


I was mad.

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