All the things which around me have changed : the
deprivation and the need together. Like bugs on a
singular surface, a glass perhaps, upon which none
get a grip, the world slides away. Its frantic pace and
stupid face granting nothing back but illness and pain.
Plath-like, I decide to kneel before some chantilly oven
with the kids in the other room. How dumb an idea was
that : 'Kids, your Dad's not home yet, and I am dead.'