---

I scan the days, struggling to remember

as best I can to catch a discrepancy in this

pointless repetition, but despite my care I see

nothing new save the deterioration of the clarity

of each day, them melting into each other

something has changed. Not merely the regression

of days, I feel that I might be dying: that the

flowers are burrowing back into the earth,

that the leaves on the trees are retracting

like soft green claws...Yet, no other

sensation is allowed me, except for an intense cold!

They've not been born yet, they will never be born!

I'm dying because of the cold by my feeble

reckoning, ten years have gone past...

I am not undergoing any corresponding rejuvenation.

Conversely, there's no children of that age and below

outside.

They've not been born yet, they will never be born!

(My window that scream to shatter my sleep)