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I dwell in books, works of art, the afterlife, while doctors gather symptoms and label incurable. A princess wore this disorder, and a well-known beauty; in the Netherlands I qualify for death by euthanasia. My mother and son visit this morning, we stare at his sympathy card: no words, he drew stickmen and flowers and Mother painted it smooth. Papers to sign, radio plays low. Panes of glass shiver in August air; the news broadcasts forest fires, yet forecasted rain still called dirty. My roommate wears the name of my mother’s mother; a ghost I assumed, invisible, until I awoke to her shadow on bed curtains, huge and mute and starving. I call for you, Anne, Sylvia, Franz, Vincent, clouds, rain, storms.