Eamon Morrissey as Cream

Don't mind me.

When you think.

I shall soon be quite dead at last, in spite of all.

Perhaps next month.

Then it'll be the month of April or of May.

for the year is still young, a thousand little signs tell me so.

Perhaps I am wrong.

Perhaps I shall survive St.

John the Baptist's Day, and even the 14th of July Festival of Freedom.

Indeed, I would not put it past me to pant on to the Transfiguration, not to speak of the Assumption, but I do not think so.

I do not think I am wrong in saying that these rejoicings will take place in my absence this year.

I have that feeling.

I have had it now for some days, and I credit it.

But in what does it differ from those that have abused me ever since I was born?

No, that is the kind of bait I do not rise to any more.

My need for prettiness is gone.

I could die today, if I wished, merely by making a little effort, if I could wish, if I could make an effort.

But it is just as well to let myself die quietly, without rushing things.

Something must have changed.

I will not weigh upon the balance any more, one way or the other.