When you walk into the home of an actively dying soul, the photos on the wall feel like ghosts.  Inhabitants move about in alternating stages of grief and hope. The endings never surprise me as much as my interpretation of beginnings. 


I’m sick and don’t want to leave the bed, but when commercials come on I dream of someone asking me out to dance, and maybe even a kiss.  My muscles have softened, but I blame it on the mattress and Häagen-Dazs.  Death can be cold, slow, and sweet at the same time.

A lady comes every week to touch me but I don’t think she’s a pervert.  She is a little misguided though. I’ve been ready to die for several years now. A little chanting and gentle massage won’t change anything. I figure the energy they all spend on me could be used on something important, something like living. 

At some point, every lamp needs a replacement bulb.

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