For you, my heart . . Ripped from my chest. Eviscerated, I am. And if I
could, I would plunge my fingers through my chest and rip out my heart
and give it to you. A pulpy mass of morbid diathesis. In addition to my
heart, there are some small organs that want to give you: glands...
sweetbreads... variety meats. I know that they don't amount to much in
the face of what you've given me. I've heard these organs can't survive
outside the body for more than a few hours. But I'll try to get there
as soon as I can. Whatever happens, it will be on me. On my heart.
