He swallows the ricin under the penalty of the cusp, Neptune's trident or the sword of Damocles. Prostrate and gibbering, the crooked chalice approaches and sips. In the distance, the swirl crackles, festive or mournful. Droplet by droplet the heart valve, bicuspid, calms down, the tongue slides on the tooth, bicuspid, turgid. This is the Gordian knot that cannot be untied. The victory of Pyrrhus, for which no laurels are taken. The gift of the Greeks, which is never enjoyed. The slang forgotten, the business dropped, droplet by droplet the throat closes, the face pales. Gymnophobic once, he now rips off his clothes and sandals, eager for air and light, almost stony and without emphasis. 

He expects nothing, he knows. That the will is fulfilled. That the penalty is heavy, ironic, who would say that about a penalty. That his spirit is fleeing him and, with it, time. That his epigraph will soon become an epitaph, an example and a warning. A burst eardrum, a bleeding ulcer, a blocked liver, syncope and collapse. It doesn’t delay. It doesn’t postpone. It won’t wait. Death.

Livid