an application of this

I die in my mind. I die while watching a woman paint. Her cadmium covered fingers roaming across her lips with a lit cigarette, barely perceptible to the underlying cause of her dementia. She stumbled upon herself infront of her semi-visible, ephemeral construction of scribbles. She kept stumbling as if she were unimpressed with everything. She was not laughing. She was not talking. She was not loving. She was not looking. She is re-conceived from both our expectations while in her own conscious and bodily relationship. I thought of the people who would be still alive. They would remember how I was an ass to be around. They would remember how I was not fun at all. Worst of all things. To poison me with whatevers.