Not busy dying


Imagine absolute perfection 

I am dying. She sighed. Added, I thought you should know.

The sun poured in over her dashboard as NPR reported on the gasoline shortage in Venezuela. 

My mother is a fish. 

As I Lay Dying, a requiem for the South. Devoured as a behemoth, sustained by droughts, cultivated imaginatively. This long ago, years between, hollow space the words once filled, sends echoes seering across the vast emptiness of missed fortune, scattered dreams and nonexistent hopes, due to early dismantling by dark forces surrounding the child cut adrift by good intentions. 
I thought you should know.

So I could do or say or feel what? Please tell me. I have no idea on my own. You thought I would like to know or that I should do something that is never clear but always disappointing.

She drove until it was dark. She cried by the side of the road. She emptied her pockets, carved a hole in her soul, spun round to see who followed, in those whispering shadows that followed her ‘home.’

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