There’s more than one reason I’m not attempting to make myself coherent; I don’t know if I can. Could you?
Don’t answer that, you don’t know.

I’ve made too many concessions to your docility, your placid ignorance.
This isn’t entertainment. I’m really dying.

When the last fiery ember has burnt out, express your sorrow for the man, and make sure you stop at the lobby on the way out.
The credits roll, my name upon the dark screen.

Enjoy your evening.