Death is an angel but so is birth. Entering the world surrounded by pain and screams then coveted by her arms. Contact, skin, the assurance of warmth. I would not feel that again until my last moment when the angel speaks.
Vivid, the light blinds. And now sight has depth and colour is warmth. Darkness cushions, soft and kind.
“Kill your darlings, burn your babies.” You can’t say that. I will not read it.
We discussed it at length but nothing was said.
At the end of things, we started to talk.