Hello Clint Eastwood. Hello Death. Goodbye Apple.

I'm waiting for you, Clint Eastwood. You're coming down the hill, and I see you. It's only natural to be afraid. My finger is resting on an apple. It's firm, but it gives a little if I squeeze it. Don't want to bruise it now, though. Not before you get to my porch. Oh, Clint, it's been too long. You look tired. I wish we weren't aiming to kill each other. All I have is this apple, but I'd say that it's a good enough piece of fruit, I wouldn't mind staying alive long enough to finish it. I washed it myself, kept it in the fridge too. That means it's going to be crisp. I'd be happy if I could see long enough to swallow the first bite. You're not sure you can wait, though, are you, Clint? You want to do the job and go. Hell, you might even take the apple. Right after I told you it was all I had. That's like sleeping with a man's wife, Clint, it's all I have - I told you that. It's silly for me to get upset. You wouldn't ask, and I haven't really told you anything. You're still coming down that damn hill. Like an older, deadlier Laura Ingles, but this ain't no Little House on the Prairie, is it Clint? I'm no Michael Landon, either. Haven't got time to develop the drinking problem or become a guardian angel - not like Michael, anyhow. It didn't have to end like this - you coming down the hill to my porch to finish the job you started 23 years ago. You're a bastard, Clint Eastwood. You're the yellow bird I've been waiting for. This would be a sight easier if I didn't love you so much. I feel like Abraham, I'm watching myself sacrifice the one thing I love. You're getting too old, Isaac. I hope God spares you. You're a good man. I'm ready to go. I don't need the apple, it's been getting warmer in my hand since I saw you. It won't be crisp anymore. I'm ready for you, Clint Eastwood. You'll be here soon - no ram around to take my place. Stories all mixed up, isn't it? I hate when I do that. Goodbye, Clint. Enjoy my apple.