Here I am in the ground my mouth open and I can't even say mama, and the dogs run by and stop and piss on my stone; I get it all except the sun and my suit is looking bad and yesterday the last of my left arm gone very little left, all harp-like without music. At least a drunk in bed with a cigarette might cause 5 fire engines and 33 men. I can't do any thing. But p.s. -- Hector Richmond in the next tomb thinks only of Mozart and candy caterpillars. He is very bad company.