Every second, you give up a little more, stare at the space between us, mumble one-word answers, refuse your favorite sandwich. I understand. It’s part of the sickness, part of what stitches our suffering together. No pill or doctor can cure us. So I sit with you as you empty the last bits of yourself into simply doing nothing. Oh, the stillness of that room. The way things have collected. The way you reach for only your disappearing memories. The quiet fungus of stagnation. -Katherine Gotthardt
