I’ve not heard a dyslexic saxophonist, a chain-smoking bassist a fraud playing on cheap wooden recorders hawking his talent prostituting himself for pity or pithy glares or passive defeatist stares (of which the latter is worse) utter  
“maybe” “maybe not”  
without contemplating murder. In that moment I wish they’d fall onto a knife prey to a drastic and instant case of pancreatic cancer or a collapsed lung or a swelling of the brain causing a stroke and, if everything goes as planned, death.

I pray they’d never mouth another word giggle at another silly limerick for the duration of their disastrously snipped lives.  
I prefer them frozen in a torturous fixed pose ever after that moment one hand raised as if to swat the Quick Spirit. I desire to end them with a sturdy blow to the eardrum. They would never have another orgasm eat another Sundae lunch or even breathe.  
They’d go beautifully having said one last beautiful thing beautifully.