It’s not even that late, but weariness tightens my shoulder blades and weighs down my eyelids, and I can barely keep from yawning.
But because I made a promise to myself, a promise to be kinder to myself, more appreciative of the tiny little life I have left to me, I write.
I write a little song in prose about the knowledge that we are all going to die, and I push myself a little bit more. I remember the way the sky looked overhead, wintry with low clouds, and the cold air blowing through my thin t-shirt, and I admit that that’s good enough.
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