Since my last "post" as you kids call it, I've slipped into an even greater level of senility. I can dance the rumbuk two again and sometimes I even feel Martha's sweet, crimson lips upon my supple cheek.
I went to the flower store today, and bought but one red rose and put it in a vase with water, where it is sitting on my coffee table in front of me as we speak. As I look at its beauty, I know one day its extraordinary color will fade and it will soon begin to deteriorate. It's vivid beauty, much like Martha's face, will be no more in sight. It's sweet smell reminding me of her gorgeous smelling hair, will be no more in smell. The touch of her soft hand much like the touch of the soft, delicate petals resting on the stem will be no more in feel. I will not be able to hear it grow as I hear her love, no more sound. And the bitter taste of the rose to contrast its beauty will be no more just as nothing was perfect within her. Maybe one day I will be reunited with my rose. Maybe one day.
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My name is Elmer. I'm 89 years old. I had a can of spam for lunch today. Back in the war, we weren't allowed spam for lunch on account of the nazis were draining the rivers. And what's spam without a good river to sit next to. I went down to Joe's Nickel Theater to see the news, but Joe kicked me out.
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