Oh, my wretched health. I ponder over it, coughing and hacking at the grease in my throat. You listener. Beg for a healthy life. Not that I wish it upon you.

Oh, my body aches and pains at the steps on the sidewalk and the cold cripples my joints and eats at my fingers. How poor is life if this is its quality? What is the point of living? What recourse has led me to this path where my body is so worn? Oh, how exhausting.

My flesh has soured; sickly green and rough, is it, with deep wells open like empty eye sockets. I am grotesque. The grey strands that cling to my scalp are thin and weak, almost silver with age. There is barely enough left to cover my ancient face. My good eye can barely make out its shape in the mirror anyway. If someone were to bash me over the head, I would barely know it was happening.

I am surprised some criminal hasn’t marked me easy yet. That’s all that’s around these days. Criminals and the weak-minded, barely able to sustain themselves. Whiners and criminals. There is no place for people like me. Yet, I survive.

Oh, I survive. I am far past my prime. Any ordinary person would have passed away years ago, but I am still here. Despite the winter’s cold and endless nights, I still breathe. And I can’t stomach food any longer. It passes into my rotten stomach and returns as black bile, thus, I haven’t eaten for ages. Yet, I linger on in the world of the living. I know my time has long passed, but it has passed so long ago that I am confident that I shall never expire.

But, if death does come for me, he will bring someone to make me go. I am certain in that. This world is cruel. It is as sick as I am. Just as rotten. My timely death could be at any moment, but here I am. I will live in wretched health until that day comes, in misery. But I will live.