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The chair. The blue chair -how can it exist without him? It had become a part of his body. From the chair death stares. A coldness inhabits this room like a wild animal. A shawl hangs over the window to strangle each thin neck of light. The chair opens its mouth to swallow. On the table sits a glass of yellow water and a plant that tries to grow back into the earth. To the wall clings the dead religion of his walker. The chair draws me closer. The long-dead ones peer from pictures arranged in weird triangles in black and white time. As he died they opened their eyes a little wider. The chair grips me evilly. The fingernails grow in the freezer. The eyes sink into the head. I sit on the chair, and I am covered with blood. |
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