What would life be like if I stopped existing? For my family? For this house? IF I ceased?

In reality, it would be messy. You can't just stop one day.

There's the half of the coin of apathy I contend with, there's the half of the coin that appears to strongly hate me.

In mix, I find myself morbidly curious how both can borrow the same room today. I poke.

We only amuse each other like horses will toss their heads and froth at the mouth, green with grass, pale pink with blood.

"If I were you, I would go off the grind," My mother says with a little wave of her hand. She blames me, I can tell. My job.

They will find me. Anyway. I have to write. I have to stay visible. Before I die.