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THE MiSERY OF AGE
© WRiTER oN THe MoON
The crows caw. They look down on her from the branches of a birch tree. She has no control over her body.
Four crows descend. The first one perches on her head, prancing, until he gets a good hold on her skull, sinking his beak into her eye. She screams for them to go away. Her body doesn't respond.A man appears to her left and the birds take off, frightened and angry. It snows. She feels an enormous peace in the presence of the man.
The man sneezes then approaches and with sublime delicacy he unstitches her soul. He does the same with the tangle of memories painted with watercolors in her brain. A whole life of love, hate and infinite ideas, transforming themselves into a thread that, once out of the body are woven into a cloth. He washes it. He hangs it out. It dries in the sun and the cold wind erodes the fibers until it is consumed.
"I am leaving"