A smooth and even flow of light
Transformed from sunbeams through a screen
That makes it seem as if it might
Be anytime outside. A green
Blanket on the bed, a small
White pillow underneath the head,
An empty shelf against the wall
No evidence that I'm not dead,
Except the insect skittering
Across the dullness of the floor
In search of food, and chittering
About what he has found. Therefore
I cannot squash him, since I'm sure he
's proof I'm not in purgatory.
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