There is a man who will come to visit me today. I know he will come to visit me today because he comes to see me every day. I don’t know his name really, he never told me, and I never asked, I think he likes it that way, and I don’t mind. He comes exactly at one twenty one every afternoon with a needle and takes a bit of blood, not enough to hurt me really unless he by some chance fell asleep and left the needle to sit in my vein and draw out far more than he normally would. He has come every day now for twelve years and ninety-nine days, and every day draws my blood.