Sunlight breaks in. An adventurous sound traces its route back to its lair. The room fills. All ancestors have written letters towards extinction. History has forgotten how many moons are in the footnotes. The placid stasis of something even more forgotten takes precedence. An evening with a god takes center stage. Emptiness takes up time.

 “If you don’t visit me, you’re a bad son,” begins the guilt trip. And so I visit her. And as her hospital stay becomes longer, I visit more and more. “I don’t want to live sometimes. I feel that someone is breaking my legs. I can barely walk,” she says in deepening sadness. “If you only knew what I was gong through,” she continues, “I am so sick of being sick,” she says. “What day is it?” she asks.

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