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Weekly Contest #234
The morning bird song gives me no relief. As I lie dying, I study the composition of my face mirrored in the hospital glass. It is possible to recognise the strange monster looking back at me amidst wires and nasal tubes; my skin still holds the texture and tone of something human, although I begin to sense something more abstract, a withering, wimpering self portrait of a creature fading across time. The sun starts to set around my five o’clock shadow, bone frame. I close my eyes and go to my happy place—surfing the waves. Death is like thi...
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