Sometimes he's a bit scared about his present state;
could this fit be nothing but an expression of death? He dreams about his body on the floor;
here come the flies knocking at the carrion's door:

"The cure, where's the cure?
Where are my tablets now?
The cure, where's the cure?
Without you I am lost!"

Sometimes he doesn't care enough about the suffering;
too many pills somewhere on a bedside table still waiting for him...
He seems to sleep but with wide open eyes.
He needs some help, the blood is filling his mouth.
I know you so well, you think you've been dead for years;
inside your head even time has disappeared!

"Lovely disease, just take your ease,
but when you come to take me, please,
sculpt my corpse like a masterpiece."

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