Dear Andy,
It's been several minutes since I composed my last letter, and now again I submit my will to the near autonomy of linguistic representation.
I fear that the end is nigh for me, fear it with all of my heart. My legs are stiffening, I can feel them stiffening beneath my aged pinafore, as old as I can remember. It’s as though the joints are solidifying, fossilizing in their skin, preserving me as a hideous memorial to the self that still goes on. And my chest, oh how my chest hurts, tearing through me with every breath I can or cannot take, the lungs forced into a space too small for the fleshy scale of their once mighty bronchioles, my breath’s only a fraction of the necessary intake. My brittle fingers are dry like shortbread; I spend each second waiting for the break, the crumbs. I am malfunctioning, seizing up like poorly maintained machinery, and soon I will disappear. Perhaps with only an orange smear, trace amounts of rusted hopes painted in erratic flecks across my armchair, my tomb. I want to see blood pour from my fingers again, caught awkwardly on nails jutting, or hawthorns, or memories, but I’m afraid that only powder would poor from the crippling drought of my veins.
Time is perceived as such only with appropriate passage, of food, distance, conviction. I have none.
Did you find the treat? Originally it hadn't fit in the fridge, but I forced it, much to the joy of the children.
I will write again soon, if I ever learn what soon is.
Your ever fanatical
Ma
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