I have many times thought that death's hands was knocking on my door. But when I opened the door, it was but the wind against my roof. At times I sigh and at other times relieved because I was not ready to die. For to die unprepared is to die with fear.
I feel now as the man with the ten thousand talents worth of debt. I am on my knees pleading, 'have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.' But we know that such large debts can only be paid back if one has the means to a large fortune. For even if I was to work four hundred years, I should never pay my bill. In this regard, I am hopeless lest my creditors have an eye of mercy.
But my flames are flickering, almost put out. The hour of death is upon me and I shall be my own executor. My name should be thrown in with uselessness and remembered with the dogs. I am but hopeless incarnate, forlorn displaying and misery travelling.
I had lived my life with death far from my eyes as to leave many things undone. I wish I completed a story. I wish I did something good. But now I live too cold to be warmed by the sunshine of love. I keep myself in the shade of isolation. I was a fool to think that time was my friend, but now my own time I must shorten.
I bid you farewell Sunny, I bid you a long farewell.