feeling like immanuel kant while reading a letter from a friend

To D.M.

life sucks; my limit is at hand; all that
i am is rotten; and when i go, please,
do not immortalize me so; i wish
to be forgotten

i choose not to exist through anything,
through neither work, nor memories, nor thoughts;
as quietly as i came to this world,
i wish to leave; from nothing will come nought

these things i gave you, friend, are merely things;
they are but shadows of forms vast and grand,
in which they have corporeality
in which, in truth, i did not have a hand

my songs, are, thus, all but arrangements mere;
you may enjoy them, but they are not i;
regardless, it's a philosophic sphere,
so when i go, please let my memory die

the music is in you; you felt it, and
did not hear what i have made; how can i
make you feel - for tangibility I
haven't; i did not make it, i'm afraid

it is all but interpretation, which
enjoyment gives you, and what you have now
long taken for my doing (though it may
within you live, it is not mine to give

deluded and mistaken, now you feel
for me; your memory will disappear
when i am gone; why leave a legacy
in universe of legacies