Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note by Imamu Amiri Baraka
Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
the ground opens up and envelops me each time
I go out to walk the dog. Or the broad-edged,
silly music the wind makes when I run to catch a bus.
Things have come to that.
And now, each night I count the stars, and each
night I get the same number. And when they will
not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
And then, last night, I tiptoed up to my daughter's
room, and heard her talking to someone.
But when I opened the door, there was no one there...
only she, kneeling,
peering into her own clasped hands.
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