Time stops while I look around the room at all the nothing. A still life tableaux. Cup with rim of coffee rind. Cigarette case with cancer council warning and Bic lighter mooring. Origami paper cranes and crumpled mistakes. Affluent layers of dust and ash. I drag my fingers across the table scraping patterns in the silt, they mean nothing but my mind refuses to admit it. I trace them out, feeling for meaning with a desperation I’m not used to. These final moments should mean something, if not for me than for somebody, but there’s nothing here to decipher.

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