“Very few people know where they will die,But I do; in a brick-faced hospital,Divided, not unlike Caesarean Gaul,Into three parts; the Dean MemorialWing, in the classic cast of 1910,Green-grated in unglazed, AeolianEmbrasures; the Maud Wiggin Building, whichCommemorates a dog-jawed Boston bitchWho fought the brass down to their whipcord kneesIn World War I, and won enlisted menSome decent hospitals, and, being rich,Donated her own granite monument;The Mandeville Pavilion, pink-brick tentWith marble piping, flying snapping flagsAbove the entry where our bloody ragsAre rolled in to be sponged and sewn again.Today is fair; tomorrow, scourging rain(If only my own tears) will see me inThose jaundiced and distempered corridorsOff which the five-foot-wide doors slowly close.White as my skimpy chiton, I will cringeBefore the pinpoint of the least syringe;Before the buttered catheter goes in;Before the I.V.’s lisp and drip beginsInside my skin; before the rubber handUpon the lancet takes aim and descendsTo lay me open, and upon its thumbRetracts the trouble, a malignant plum;And finally, I’ll quail before the hourWhen the authorities shut off the powerIn that vast hospital, and in my bedI’ll feel my blood go thin, go white, the red,The rose all leached away, and I’ll go dead.Then will the business of life resume:The muffled trolley wheeled into my room,The off-white blanket blanking off my face,The stealing secret, private, largo raceDown halls and elevators to the placeI’ll be consigned to for transshipment, casedIn artificial air and light: the wardThat’s underground; the terminal; the morgue.Then one fine day when all the smart flags flap,A booted man in black with a peaked capWill call for me and troll me down the hallAnd slot me into his black car. That’s all.”

“With my sister perched on my arm, I walked to the elevator. A business man with a rolling suitcase was waiting by the doors. His eyes widened as he saw me. I must’ve looked pretty strange—a tall black kid in dirty, ragged Egyptian clothes, with a weird box tucked under one arm and a bird of prey perched on the other.“How’s it going?” I said.“I’ll take the stairs.” He hurried off.”

“One day on a ranging we brought down a fine big elk. We were skinning it when the smell of blood drew a shadowcat out of its lair. I drove it off, but not before it shredded my cloak to ribbons. Do you see? Here, here, and here?” He chuckled. “It shredded my arm and back as well, and I bled worse than the elk. My brothers feared I might die before they got me back to Maester Mullin at the Shadow Tower, so they carried me to a wildling village where we knew an old wisewoman did some healing. She was dead, as it happened, but her daughter saw to me. Cleaned my wounds, sewed me up, and fed me porridge and potions until I was strong enough to ride again. And she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me.” He swept the cloak back over his shoulders. “But at the Shadow Tower, I was given a new wool cloak from stores, black and black, and trimmed with black, to go with my black breeches and black boots, my black doublet and black mail. The new cloak had no frays nor rips nor tears … and most of all, no red. The men of the Night’s Watch dressed in black, Ser Denys Mallister reminded me sternly, as if I had forgotten. My old cloak was fit for burning now, he said. “I left the next morning … for a place where a kiss was not a crime, and a man could wear any cloak he chose.”

“A brick could be used to show how patient you are. Somewhere between one brick and a million bricks lies a home. For me, my home is one brick, and I carry it with me wherever I go, because I’m always on the move. Maybe one day, when I’m a wealthy man, I’ll get a second brick and walk around with my mansion in my hands.
”

“Many friends have expressed concern that a religious fanatic will try to kill me when I go to Africa. After all, I’ll be speaking out against a crime many fundamentalists consider a holy practice. I’m sure my work will be dangerous, and I admit to being scared…. But my faith tells me to be strong, that God led me down this path for a reason. He has work for me to do. This is my mission. And I believe that long before the day I was born, God chose the day I will die, so I can’t change that. In the meantime, I might as well take a chance, because that’s what I’ve done all my life.”

“I don't want to go back into that dressing room and take off my boots and my pants and start putting on jeans only to discover that the ones you brought me are all too tight, and then when I ask for the next size up, be informed that they're the biggest size you carry. I can't take that today. Seriously, I'll blow my head off. So look at me, look at my ass, look at my gut, take it all in, and then tell me honestly if you anticipate we're going to have a problem.”