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/it cant be said living, I cant imagine you dying. . the window looked west later, a dust, a skiff- light march snow. suburbs with an elevator, the lake, a bank of indian land. "they want a road." . want a road into these words, thots barely to notice the nurse pleasant, caring and human in the seeming cold millenial politic vs this kind of care you dripping into a bag - bladder pain pressure, tv up to yr right - nonsense to waste what little time our small talk must contain what can i say: without cliche. I swear beneath my breath - angered by a finality undescribed, ourselves, I think later, today, two weeks ahead in life after you died, not that death means exit from time: it is time, - not a vale, but a folding in space without wind/air when the last instant is a burst as if the beginning of the world itself now reversed and only of itself, as fact in all its puzzlement. how to go on to form resolve and be of this body about to leave . "I'm taking this razor back" the one I use to shave you, thinking I'm this close ( tho once we hugged in a parking lot / later a gravesight & you winced at my move to intimacy; therefore, distance & my fear, as they warned, of all |