Stale smoke clambers lampward from the stogies of hungover balladeers, in dampwood chambers strewn book-and-bottle squalid. Pale fires squib out in watery eyes that no longer trace the moon’s parabolic despair through the pinball cabinets of the night. You never could successfully open radish tins. You tried to doodle Tolstoy but he looks like Marx. You sang the Internationale but it dribbled past your teeth sounding more like a song of harlequins and borrowed pens. Something’s missing from the pot au feu recipe your tante-Marie handed down; it smacks of lantern polish and the leeks don’t float. Now that the toothless red tigers under the banyans won’t deign to nibble you, now that children mock your single hair and dangling tooth, now that the assessors chalk your door with a skull and the number nine, you have decided it’s time to die. What method will you use? Not rope, gas, pill, pistol, water, height, or blade, no, you drunken mortal you, you settle on the suicide advice of Michele de Montaigne: attendez!