Dying

‘What are you doing?’

I continue to stare out of the window, what am I doing? A lot of things, I s’pose: blinking, thinking, little tiny pieces of me are carrying bubbles of oxygen to other little tiny pieces of me. I’m orchestrating all of this but I’ve never owned a baton.

‘What’re you doing?’ The voice comes from behind, but I continue to look forward.

‘Dying,’ I respond, rubbing the chin off of my face with my left hand. My right is left on its own.

‘Dying?’ the voice asks.

‘Yeah.’ I answer back, finally.

‘Yeah?’ it mimics me.

‘It’s a good day for dying,’ I reply, finally.

‘Indeed,’ the voice answers, finally. ‘It is a good day.’

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