Faulkner

What else can I think about? What else have I thought about... I can't even cry. I died last year. I told you I had, but I didn't know then what I meant. I didn't know what I was saying. Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar. "Man the sum of his climatic experiences," father said. Man the sum of what have you. A problem in impure properties carried tediously to an unvarying nil: stalemate of dust and desire. But now I know I'm dead I tell you.