The rules and requirements drone on and on down the page, describing who you can and cannot be. You find yourself worried you’re not sick enough to be considered, but the way your defenses crater in answering questions you think maybe you only had yourself fooled. He writes from the homeland to say I wish he didn’t have to take care of this mess, and you have found a new word to describe yourself.
You’ve spent a whole life trying to ensure that no one extends themselves taking care of this mess.
No one but yourself.
When can we call you to schedule a screening, the form asks. You want to answer that you’ll sit by the phone till they do, want to say that if tears could earn a place with them, the oceans of your eyes would be a golden ticket all on their own.
I go to sleep early. In sleep, there is no illness. In mornings, there’s the potential for a dawn.
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