the last book I ever read (Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders, excerpt one)

from Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders:

In any event, I returned to my sick-box, weeping in that way that we have—have you come to know this yet, young fellow? When we are newly arrived in this hospital-yard, young sir, and feel like weeping, what happens is, we tense up ever so slightly, and there is a mildly toxic feeling in the hoints, and little things inside us burst. Sometimes we might poop a bit if we are fresh. Which is just what I did, out on the cart, that day: I pooped a bit while fresh, in my sick-box, out of rage, and what was the result? I have kept that poop with me all this time, and as a matter of fact—I hope you do not find this rude, young sir, or off-putting, I hope it does not impair our nascent friendship—that poop is still down there, at this moment, in my sick-box, albeit much dryer!