This is to reassure his viewers, who continually fear his death.
like Kafka's essay
I see it,
Without anguish, quietly drifting.
A nameless Bird — a Stranger
I would rest a bit there or take a plane—
I won't be held accountable
The arc of stars
I picture whole streams, new currents,
galactic slurs even, luminescences, plasmas,
And yet, there's still so much to be done
playing for a moment in the air—even shapes
She tugs down the map to look and it flies up again like a windowshade.