this makes me want to cry all the time. if i could. mister seemed to be unable to get up this afternoon. i lifted his rear and then he was up, and then he moved well, trotting along and hugging my side. but i thought to him: i'm breaking down today, mister. i thought to myself, who will break down first? i can't break down before him. now i cry. my feet, my hands, my lungs! my head! mister! suffering with such sweet grace. he probably would not call it suffering. he'd probably shrug his shoulders, say, it's life, and smile. when i was a child i had bronchitis, a cough so bad it seemed much bigger than me, i thought it would crush me from inside. when i coughed blood, i thought, i will explode, i will die. every year, thinking i'll die. every winter, my season of death. i'm fifty years older now, i still think that way, fear transports me back, the child still coughs, the child still cries, and the man thinks, i will die from this. my lungs, my breath, my skin. so i've spent my life expecting to die. now i think again, despite being wrong countless times, i will die from this. maybe that's what kept me going, the mantra. i've known of people who always announce their imminent deaths. i guess i'm one. and maybe we die many times before we actually expire. there are reasons for me to live, persons, r. and mister, there's love and need, and no reason to die, but i fear i'm disintegrating today, in my skin, my spirit, my mind.

 don't die.