In the half light of decay I can see no further than my next thought and listen only to the sound of the last word spoken. I am no longer blinded by the light of others or deafened by the profanities they speak. Every answer has a question, every thought a need to clarify, every vision is seen through an aging mist filled with mournful sounds and cries for help. Yet none of this is of any importance to me. I hold the next breath as one might grasp a rope at the edge of a precipice. The next heartbeat is the last. The next thought is the lingering remains of a lifetime of experiences. I must hold this inside, away from the dragnet of the reaper. Hold the visions as if from a waking dream. Retain only what is relevant for the next moment. If I cannot see I cannot be seen. If I utter nothing I cannot hear. All that is left is what I hide behind these broken hands and no-one can know who this is.
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