I wanted to write to you about my day and how I haven’t been able to keep my eyes open, how it feels like death in small and diluted sips – don’t you remember the story I told you that night, about the poison girls of ancient India, used as assassins, who were made immune to their own body by being exposed to low-intensity poison since childhood, those who did not die became lethal to other humans, any contact with such a girl would be fatal – and how it feels like each day it is more death, that this ascending exposure to the end would continue till the end stops existing, until my own death cannot kill me, my love. I hope I don’t die before that.

I know that imagining my final end tortures you, that the idea of ultimate release, nirvana, moksha, call it what you will, disturbs you immensely : but, my love, don’t you realize, my ultimate release will set you free too. To experience earth without me, to be here again, unhaunted by my presence, undisturbed by my idea, to be at peace. Don’t you want that?

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