The Old Woman
By the time the habit of loneliness settles in and all around, it is like having already starved. There is no more hunger than there is life to be hungry for. It is a deadly habit, having exchanged black for the occasional gray that intensifies and recedes around the early white lie. Sometimes it is a desperate call, moved by terror, of the senses that hear the air strung with maleficence, that see the lonely squiggles pressing themselves against the television screen, trying to get out. Trying to get out the old woman picks up the phone where voices used to live.
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