You were the sun I orbited, the Master I grieved with every drop of blood I took in the dark. I destroyed myself in Paris because I thought I was your lonely monument. To know you lived, that you simply chose to leave your Amadeo in the ash... it is a second, crueler death.
Modern doctors are so boring with their sterile needles. Bring back the 1500s barbersurgeons who would diagnose you by tasting a warm vial of your morning urine. They could tell if you were going to heaven or hell just by the amount of sediment on their tongue