Last night I dreamt of my father. Grass was growing already through his lifeless lips. My mother was all sticks and bones. The kind of thin you can feel in your hands when your fingertips touch her picture.
I am in a haze.
I have no mother or father and this is not something that comes suddenly. It sneaks its way through weeks so you feel surprised when it comes, but it has been there all along. Today I am merely a character in search of a plot.
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