Please, some Cheese with this Whine

Now with each passing day and meal you come a bit closer to accepting that it is real, your ultimate end. Oh, you have suspected it for so many years, so many, maybe in the beginning you held it to your chest as a sort of death-wish to ward off the actual, stifling breath of death, thinking that if you think enough about your worst possible fate, if you plot its every line and curve and movement as imprinted on your formerly sadly glowing miniature body, the intensity of your gaze would in fact render it powerless in the end. Your fate, like an empty glass, you having dashed the bile out. But here you are and here it is and it is exactly as you said it would be a million times over again. How surprising. Is it really surprising? Look, the land is what it appears to be. There is dirt under my feet, and rocks. And if I eat grass, it will sicken me. You put it down old man and chanted it and sang songs directly down its throat until you made it start from its sleep, you monstered it, and what, are you really now so surprised that this, too, did not work as you planned? All your useless plans, what a world's fool you are, what a stupid stone. Man being but a stone thrown from God's hand. But always treasure your agnosticism, it contributes to your sense of identity. We see ourselves only as we are different from others. Sameness is horrible. Who would tolerate it? What you always wanted to think was that you knew nothing, you were wrong about everything, and therefore if you believed in the first place that you would end up in the bottom of the well right along with Otto someday(and your own mother's father, for that matter) in all actuality and due course, it could not possibly come to pass. No, no. There are no such things as self-fulfilling prophecies. Listen to my superstitions, grow fatter off my clumsy steps. Wayfayer. Turquoise skip. Like when you are afraid of certain things and worrying about certain things and you think on some level that by continuing to worry it will somehow displace the object of your fear by giving it too much attention--because, as we all well know, tragedy likes to sneak up on a man, it's a jokey old salt. Death happens quick, in an instant. And you yourself not much less than a jokey old jester in a bad suit working out the best way to tie a noose.